Mrs. Dalloway
thousands of poor chaps, with all their lives before them, shovelled
together, already half forgotten; it was a miracle. Here he was walking
across London to say to Clarissa in so many words that he loved her.
Which one never does say, he thought. Partly one’s lazy; partly one’s
shy. And Clarissa--it was difficult to think of her; except in starts,
as at luncheon, when he saw her quite distinctly; their whole life.
He stopped at the crossing; and repeated--being simple by nature, and
undebauched, because he had tramped, and shot; being pertinacious and
dogged, having championed the down-trodden and followed his instincts
in the House of Commons; being preserved in his simplicity yet at the
same time grown rather speechless, rather stiff--he repeated that it
was a miracle that he should have married Clarissa; a miracle--his
life had been a miracle, he thought; hesitating to cross. But it did
make his blood boil to see little creatures of five or six crossing
Piccadilly alone. The police ought to have stopped the traffic at once.
He had no illusions about the London police. Indeed, he was collecting
evidence of their malpractices; and those costermongers, not allowed
to stand their barrows in the streets; and prostitutes, good Lord, the
fault wasn’t in them, nor in young men either, but in our detestable
social system and so forth; all of which he considered, could be seen
considering, grey, dogged, dapper, clean, as he walked across the Park
to tell his wife that he loved her.
For he would say it in so many words, when he came into the room.
Because it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels, he
thought, crossing the Green Park and observing with pleasure how in
the shade of the trees whole families, poor families, were sprawling;
children kicking up their legs; sucking milk; paper bags thrown about,
which could easily be picked up (if people objected) by one of those
fat gentlemen in livery; for he was of opinion that every park, and
every square, during the summer months should be open to children (the
grass of the park flushed and faded, lighting up the poor mothers of
Westminster and their crawling babies, as if a yellow lamp were moved
beneath). But what could be done for female vagrants like that poor
creature, stretched on her elbow (as if she had flung herself on the
earth, rid of all ties, to observe curiously, to speculate boldly,
to consider the whys and the wherefores, impudent, loose-lipped,
humorous), he did not know. Bearing his flowers like a weapon, Richard
Dalloway approached her; intent he passed her; still there was time
for a spark between them--she laughed at the sight of him, he smiled
good-humouredly, considering the problem of the female vagrant; not
that they would ever speak. But he would tell Clarissa that he loved
her, in so many words. He had, once upon a time, been jealous of Peter
Walsh; jealous of him and Clarissa. But she had often said to him that
she had been right not to marry Peter Walsh; which, knowing Clarissa,
was obviously true; she wanted support. Not that she was weak; but she
wanted support.
As for Buckingham Palace (like an old prima donna facing the audience
all in white) you can’t deny it a certain dignity, he considered, nor
despise what does, after all, stand to millions of people (a little
crowd was waiting at the gate to see the King drive out) for a symbol,
absurd though it is; a child with a box of bricks could have done
better, he thought; looking at the memorial to Queen Victoria (whom he
could remember in her horn spectacles driving through Kensington), its
white mound, its billowing motherliness; but he liked being ruled by
the descendant of Horsa; he liked continuity; and the sense of handing
on the traditions of the past. It was a great age in which to have
lived. Indeed, his own life was a miracle; let him make no mistake
about it; here he was, in the prime of life, walking to his house in
Westminster to tell Clarissa that he loved her. Happiness is this he
thought.
It is this, he said, as he entered Dean’s Yard. Big Ben was beginning
to strike, first the warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable.
Lunch parties waste the entire afternoon, he thought, approaching his
door.
The sound of Big Ben flooded Clarissa’s drawing-room, where she sat,
ever so annoyed, at her writing-table; worried; annoyed. It was
perfectly true that she had not asked Ellie Henderson to her party; but
she had done it on purpose. Now Mrs. Marsham wrote “she had told Ellie
Henderson she would ask Clarissa--Ellie so much wanted to come.”
But why should she invite all the dull women in London to her
parties? Why should Mrs. Marsham interfere? And there was Elizabeth
closeted all this time with Doris Kilman. Anything more nauseating
she could not conceive. Prayer at this hour with that woman. And the
sound of the bell flooded the room with its melancholy wave; which
receded, and gathered itself together to fall once more, when she
heard, distractingly, something fumbling, something scratching at the
door. Who at this hour? Three, good Heavens! Three already! For with
overpowering directness and dignity the clock struck three; and she
heard nothing else; but the door handle slipped round and in came
Richard! What a surprise! In came Richard, holding out flowers. She
had failed him, once at Constantinople; and Lady Bruton, whose lunch
parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her. He
was holding out flowers--roses, red and white roses. (But he could not
bring himself to say he loved her; not in so many words.)
But how lovely, she said, taking his flowers. She understood; she
understood without his speaking; his Clarissa. She put them in vases on
the mantelpiece. How lovely they looked! she said. And was it amusing,
she asked? Had Lady Bruton asked after her? Peter Walsh was back. Mrs.
Marsham had written. Must she ask Ellie Henderson? That woman Kilman
was upstairs.
“But let us sit down for five minutes,” said Richard.
It all looked so empty. All the chairs were against the wall. What had
they been doing? Oh, it was for the party; no, he had not forgotten,
the party. Peter Walsh was back. Oh yes; she had had him. And he was
going to get a divorce; and he was in love with some woman out there.
And he hadn’t changed in the slightest. There she was, mending her
dress....
“Thinking of Bourton,” she said.
“Hugh was at lunch,” said Richard. She had met him too! Well, he was
getting absolutely intolerable. Buying Evelyn necklaces; fatter than
ever; an intolerable ass.
“And it came over me ‘I might have married you,’” she said, thinking
of Peter sitting there in his little bow-tie; with that knife, opening
it, shutting it. “Just as he always was, you know.”
They were talking about him at lunch, said Richard. (But he could
not tell her he loved her. He held her hand. Happiness is this, he
thought.) They had been writing a letter to the _Times_ for Millicent
Bruton. That was about all Hugh was fit for.
“And our dear Miss Kilman?” he asked. Clarissa thought the roses
absolutely lovely; first bunched together; now of their own accord
starting apart.
“Kilman arrives just as we’ve done lunch,” she said. “Elizabeth turns
pink. They shut themselves up. I suppose they’re praying.”
Lord! He didn’t like it; but these things pass over if you let them.
“In a mackintosh with an umbrella,” said Clarissa.
He had not said “I love you”; but he held her hand. Happiness is this,
is this, he thought.
“But why should I ask all the dull women in London to my parties?” said
Clarissa. And if Mrs. Marsham gave a party, did _she_ invite her guests?
“Poor Ellie Henderson,” said Richard--it was a very odd thing how much
Clarissa minded about her parties, he thought.
But Richard had no notion of the look of a room. However--what was he
going to say?
If she worried about these parties he would not let her give them. Did
she wish she had married Peter? But he must go.
He must be off, he said, getting up. But he stood for a moment as if he
were about to say something; and she wondered what? Why? There were the
roses.
“Some Committee?” she asked, as he opened the door.
“Armenians,” he said; or perhaps it was “Albanians.”
And there is a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband and
wife a gulf; and that one must respect, thought Clarissa, watching
him open the door; for one would not part with it oneself, or take
it, against his will, from one’s husband, without losing one’s
independence, one’s self-respect--something, after all, priceless.
He returned with a pillow and a quilt.
“An hour’s complete rest after luncheon,” he said. And he went.
How like him! He would go on saying “An hour’s complete rest after
luncheon” to the end of time, because a doctor had ordered it once.
It was like him to take what doctors said literally; part of his
adorable, divine simplicity, which no one had to the same extent;
which made him go and do the thing while she and Peter frittered
their time away bickering. He was already half-way to the House of
Commons, to his Armenians, his Albanians, having settled her on the
sofa, looking at his roses. And people would say, “Clarissa Dalloway
is spoilt.” She cared much more for her roses than for the Armenians.
Hunted out of existence, maimed, frozen, the victims of cruelty and
injustice (she had heard Richard say so over and over again)--no, she
could feel nothing for the Albanians, or was it the Armenians? but she
loved her roses (didn’t that help the Armenians?)--the only flowers
she could bear to see cut. But Richard was already at the House of
Commons; at his Committee, having settled all her difficulties. But
no; alas, that was not true. He did not see the reasons against asking
Ellie Henderson. She would do it, of course, as he wished it. Since
he had brought the pillows, she would lie down.... But--but--why did
she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately
unhappy? As a person who has dropped some grain of pearl or diamond
into the grass and parts the tall blades very carefully, this way and
that, and searches here and there vainly, and at last spies it there
at the roots, so she went through one thing and another; no, it was not
Sally Seton saying that Richard would never be in the Cabinet because
he had a second-class brain (it came back to her); no, she did not
mind that; nor was it to do with Elizabeth either and Doris Kilman;
those were facts. It was a feeling, some unpleasant feeling, earlier
in the day perhaps; something that Peter had said, combined with some
depression of her own, in her bedroom, taking off her hat; and what
Richard had said had added to it, but what had he said? There were his
roses. Her parties! That was it! Her parties! Both of them criticised
her very unfairly, laughed at her very unjustly, for her parties. That
was it! That was it!
Well, how was she going to defend herself? Now that she knew what it
was, she felt perfectly happy. They thought, or Peter at any rate
thought, that she enjoyed imposing herself; liked to have famous people
about her; great names; was simply a snob in short. Well, Peter might
think so. Richard merely thought it foolish of her to like excitement
when she knew it was bad for her heart. It was childish, he thought.
And both were quite wrong. What she liked was simply life.
“That’s what I do it for,” she said, speaking aloud, to life.
Since she was lying on the sofa, cloistered, exempt, the presence
of this thing which she felt to be so obvious became physically
existent; with robes of sound from the street, sunny, with hot breath,
whispering, blowing out the blinds. But suppose Peter said to her,
“Yes, yes, but your parties--what’s the sense of your parties?” all she