In the thirties, Miss du Maurier was a kind of poor woman's Charlotte Brontë. Her Rebecca, whatever one's opinions of its ultimate merits, was a tour de force. In its own way and century, it has achieved a position in English Literature comparable to "Monk" Lewis's The Bleeding Nun or Mrs. Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho. To-day Miss du Maurier the novelist is Miss Blurb's favourite Old Girl whose published appearances are heralded with the brouhaha of a privileged ex-hockey captain come down to give the home team a few hints about attack. This, one imagines her telling newcomers to St. Gollancz's, is how it should be done. Frankly, I cannot help feeling that Miss du Maurier's books have been successfully filmed so often that by now she may be said not so much to write a novel as shoot it. The present scenario [in My Cousin Rachel] is...