We hope the example of Daphne's family will encourage you to post on this webpage your favourite lines other than the universally well-loved opening to Rebecca. Perhaps you'll be inspired to re-read her books and discover other lines with a special meaning for you.

Virago Press has published almost thirty of Daphne's books in paperback with a delightful hardback edition of Vanishing Cornwall. These have introductions by established authors, some of whom have presented at our Festival and submitted their own favourite lines below.

If you have already REGISTERED as a Member, please use the SUBMIT form to send your favourite lines to us, where they will be reviewed by Ann Willmore.

"Your Favourite Lines" is based on an original idea by Collin Langley.

Jean Margaret Gwynne
Frenchman's Creek

The farm kitchen, where the tripper takes his tea, was part of Navron dining-hall, and the little half-stair, now terminating in a bricked-up wall, was the stair leading to the gallery. The rest of the house must have crumbled away, or been demolished, for the square farm-building, though handsome enough, bears little likeness to the Navron of the old prints, shaped like the letter E, and of the formal garden and the park there is no trace today. The tripper eats his split and drinks his tea, smiling upon the landscape, knowing nothing of the woman who stood there once, long ago, in another summer, who caught the gleam of the river amidst the trees, as he does, and who lifted her head to the sky and felt the sun.
He hears the homely farm-yard noises, the clanking of pails, the lowing of cattle, the rough voices of the farmer and his son as they call to each other across the yard, but his ears are deaf to the echoes of that other time when someone whistled softly from the dark belt of trees, his hands cupped to his mouth, and was swiftly answered by the thin, stooping figure crouching beneath the walls of the silent house, while above them the casement opened, and Dona watched and listened, her hands playing a little nameless melody upon the sill, her ringlets falling forward over her face.
Frenchman's Creek, Ch.1, p.2/3, Virago (2003).

The first book by Daphne that I read – found in my aunt's attic. I have been 'involved in her world' ever since.
Jean Margaret Gwynne.

Sylvia Wiltshire
Frenchman's Creek

The solitary yachtsman who leaves the yacht in the open roadstead of Helford, and goes exploring up river in his dinghy on a night in midsummer, when the night-jars call, hesitates when he comes upon the mouth of the creek, for there is something of a mystery about it even now, something of enchantment. Being a stranger, the yachtsman looks back over his shoulder to the safe yacht in the roadstead, and to the broad waters of the river, and he pauses, resting on his paddles, aware suddenly of the deep silence of the creek, of its narrow twisting channel, and he feels - for no reason known to him - that he is an interloper, a trespasser in time. He ventures a little way along the left bank of the creek, the sound of the blades upon the water seeming over-loud and echoing oddly amongst the trees on the farther bank, and as he creeps forward the creek narrows, the trees crowd yet more thickly to the water's edge, and he feels a spell upon him, fascinating, strange, a thing of queer excitement not fully understood.

He is alone, and yet - can that be a whisper, in the shallows close to the bank, and does a figure stand there, the moonlight glinting upon his buckled shoes and the cutlass in his hand, and is that a woman by his side, a cloak around her shoulders, her dark ringlets drawn back behind her ears? He is wrong, of course, those are only the shadows of the trees, and the whispers are no more than the rustle of the leaves and the stir of a sleeping bird, but he is baffled suddenly, and a little scared, he feels he must go no farther, and that the head of the creek beyond the farther bank is barred to him and must remain unvisited. And so he turns to go, heading the dinghy's nose for the roadstead, and as he pulls away the sounds and the whispers become more insistent to his ears, there comes the patter of footsteps, a call, and a cry in the night, a far faint whistle, and a curious lilting song. He strains his eyes in the darkness, and the massed shadows before him loom hard and clear like the outline of a ship. A thing of grace and beauty, born in another time, a painted phantom ship.
Frenchman's Creek, Ch.1, p.4/5, Virago (2003).

My husband and I are kindred spirits with the lone yachtsman. On a summer's evening we anchored our boat, La Mouette, in the open roadstead of Helford and rowed the dinghy into the creek. The sun was low in the sky and the trees were casting shadows across the water. The feelings of enchantment and apprehension were those described by Daphne as being felt by the yachtsman. Earlier we had walked the pathway along the east side of the creek. The sun was shining and the water was calm and inviting. Entering the creek by boat was a totally different experience.
Sylvia Wiltshire.

Nil Korkut
Frenchman's Creek

And all this, she thought, is only momentary, is only a fragment in time that will never come again, for yesterday already belongs to the past and is ours no longer, and tomorrow is an unknown thing that may be hostile. This is our day, our moment, the sun belongs to us, and the wind, and the sea, and the men for'ard there singing on the deck. This day is forever a day to be held and cherished, because in it we shall have lived, and loved, and nothing else matters but that, in this world of our own making to which we have escaped.
Frenchman's Creek Ch.15, p.143, Virago (2003).

Frenchman's Creek has a special place in my heart. It is a novel I first read and loved as a teenager, and each time I return to it, I have this slightly unreasonable fear that maybe this time the magic will be gone. But thankfully, I am always wrong, and there is always the same fascination. The lines I quote describe Donna's heightened feelings following her perfect adventure with the Frenchman. They are my favourite lines because they capture in a few sentences the whole mood of the novel. The spirit of adventure, the courage to do what you feel is right, the ability to feel intensely, and the value of a moment's happiness – all of this is here in these lines. As always, du Maurier's prose is so eloquent, and the vicarious thrill we get out of Donna's adventure definitely has a cathartic effect.
Nil Korkut (Turkey).

Siobhan Isles
Frenchman's Creek

The yachtsman goes below to the snug security of his cabin, and browsing amongst his books he finds at last the thing for which he has been searching. It is a map of Cornwall, ill-drawn and inaccurate, picked up in an idle moment in a Truro bookshop. The parchment is faded and yellow, the markings indistinct. The spelling belongs to another century. Helford river is traced fairly enough, and so are the hamlets of Constantine and Gweek. But the yachtsman looks away from them to the marking of a narrow inlet, branching from the parent river, its short, twisting course running westward into a valley. Someone has scratched the name in thin faded letters - Frenchman's Creek.
The yachtsman puzzles awhile over the name, then shrugs his shoulders and rolls away the map. Presently he sleeps. The anchorage is still. No wind blows upon the water, and the night-jars are silent. The yachtsman dreams - and as the tide surges gently about his ship and the moon shines on the quiet river, soft murmurs come to him, and the past becomes the present.
A forgotten century peers out of dust and cobwebs and he walks in another time.
Frenchman's Creek, Ch.1, p.5, Virago (2003).

When I open my book of Frenchman's Creek, I always feel as though a delicate breeze has just ruffled my hair - as if, from the pages, Frenchman's Creek has stirred from its slumbers, just for a moment, before it disappears forever like a hazy childhood memory which I can't recapture or pin down, but is always there, somewhere, waiting for me to find it. I cajoled my family into hiring a boat, while we were at the 2009 Du Maurier Festival, so I could sail it into Frenchman's Creek. Upon reaching the top of the Creek, where the trees creep into the water, and the still pool at the end beckons, I had the same feeling I have every time I open the book - a feeling of stepping back, of trespassing into a century I'm not supposed to be in, just like the yachtsman above. To me, Daphne's evocation of the past bleeding into the present is the best I've ever read, and it sends a warm shiver up my spine every time. Siobhan Isles.

Flavia Leng
Frenchman's Creek

When the east wind blows up Helford river the shining waters become troubled and disturbed and the little waves beat angrily upon the sandy shores. The short seas break above the bar at ebb-tide, and the waders fly inland to the mud-flats, their wings skimming the surface, and calling to one another as they go. Only the gulls remain, wheeling and crying above the foam, diving now and again in search of food, their grey feathers glistening with the salt spray.
Frenchman's Creek, Ch.1, p.1 Virago (2003).

The solitary yachtsman who leaves his yacht in the open roadstead of Helford, and goes exploring up river in his dinghy on a night in midsummer, when the night-jars call, hesitates when he comes upon the mouth of the creek, for there is something of mystery about it even now, something of enchantment. Being a stranger, the yachtsman looks back over his shoulder to the safe yacht in the roadstead, and to the broad waters of the river, and he pauses, resting on his paddles, aware suddenly of the deep silence of the creek, of its narrow twisting channel, and he feels - for no reason known to him- that he is an interloper, a trespasser in time.
Frenchman's Creek, Ch.1, p.4, Virago (2003).

Flavia Leng is Daphne du Maurier's daughter. CL.