Perhaps the wife will be out (he thought as he re-deposited the notebook and pen in his jacket pocket). It was possible. He would ask for her first—that was it; as if it was she he wanted to see. (He got up and began walking towards the exit.) “Is Mrs. Dalloway in?” he would say, posing. And when the butler answered that no, the Mrs. was not in (or so he hoped), he would say, “Well then, perchance, is Mr. Dalloway at home?” And the butler would usher him in (for surely Richard would be there), close the door behind them, and ask his name. “May I tell the master who is calling?” To which he would respond, “If it’s all the same to you I should like to surprise him. We’re old friends, you see—we haven’t seen each other in years. Could you just direct me to him?” And the butler would pause to ponder this dilemma—but not for long, for (so Robbie imagined the butler thinking) he supposed it would be all right (now he was outside, on the steps). And then he would point up the stairs and say, “Third floor” (for Robert Davies knew—Richard had told him—that his bedroom was on the third floor—the only room on the third floor, in fact).
So excited was he now with this plan that he couldn’t wait to execute it. He would take the tube.
“DICKIE,” DUNCAN CALLED. “Dickie! Come see what Mum’s brought us.”
Their birthdays were so close together in time, mere days apart in the same month—August—that they were always celebrated together. And this year, his eighth, Duncan’s seventh, their mother had brought them—rather against their father’s wishes (so they later found out)—a rabbit of their very own to share: a big rabbit, of black and white patches and a pink, twitching nose. They named him Wellington, after the Duke, their hero at that time.
Oh, how they couldn’t wait for the school day to end, so that they might rush home and play with Wellington. And before long they had Jessie’s husband, Bert, build a hutch, as well as a little circular, closed-in yard for Wellington to romp in. And romp he did! Round and round he ran, his little rabbit feet kicking up dirt behind him, upon being released from the hutch and set down in his yard. Sometimes they chased after him; other times they held him close; coddled him. And occasionally, unbeknownst to everyone else in the house, they sneaked him into their room—then crawled (or hopped) under the beds with him; or they put him atop the bed, under the bedclothes, and laughed as the mound that was Wellington moved across like some great, animated mountain in miniature. (Only Jessie knew, finding all that rabbit fur amidst their bedclothes. At first she had scolded them, but then said she supposed she would keep their secret; that she had to wash the sheets regularly anyhow, what was it to her?)
“Welly,” as they nicknamed him, was like a new friend—one who in no way threatened but instead heightened, increased their allegiance to one another. And that their father was against it (“rabbits are not for pets; they should run wild”) made it all the better. Also now a feather in their caps was the fact that cousin Philip, despite his unoriginal, imitative wants, did not have a rabbit, nor could he—for his mother forbade it.
For over a year this went on, this special companionship between the brothers and their rabbit, this fun, until—suddenly, it all came to a quick and crashing end. As they arrived home from school one afternoon, their father stepped into their path. Wellington, he told them, had gone on a rampage—had scratched and bit Jessie while all she was doing was simply trying to feed him. And they couldn’t have that now could they?—he had had to take Jessie to see Dr. White. And so, their father said, his brutal face shining and hideous, and so he had had to shoot the damned thing—all this while they were at school.
It was like a blow to the stomach, a blow so hard that one’s breath was taken away. Richard and Duncan fell into each other’s arms, gasping for air and crying “Welly,” over and over again. Duncan had even lashed out and hit their father, thrashed at him repeatedly about the legs (and, though impassive, Richard had shared in this catharsis), for which the two of them were sent to their room. There they had cried all the rest of the day and into the night, going without dinner—for to imagine poor Welly in that instant when the rifle went off—the sound in his ears; the sensation he felt upon impact; his torn flesh, flying fur, and the slow, final beatings of his little heart.... It was unbearable. So they cried, held onto each other, consoled each other, and cursed their father. For they had lost something they held dear, something outside of themselves which—perhaps for the first time—they could say for sure that they loved. Now their hatred of their father only festered.
UMBRELLA-LESS, a somewhat manic Robert Davies paused outside the Russell Square tube station and opened his mouth to the rain; it was refreshing; it woke him up; it tested him. Or rather, it caused him to test himself: yes, he was sure he knew what he was doing. Standing on the pavement dotted with the wet (bleeding), blue-black petals of a violet, poised beneath the spot from a streetlight, he looked up into the fathomless sky, flung wide his arms and somehow expanded his rather narrow, sunken chest. He felt that good, much better—having fixed on a plan of action, a plan he was now in the process of executing; rarely in his life had he been so decisive or felt so sure of what he was doing. On my way to Richard’s, his mind labeled the plan. It had its perils, yes, he could see that; and yet, he couldn’t quite say why he had not taken such an action sooner—long, long before now.
He entered the station and rapidly descended the stairs, bouncing each time he landed. Down, down, down.... On my way to Richard’s, he thought.
Sitting in a car, destined for Westminster, Robbie looked about at his fellow passengers. “A grey lot,” he thought. But almost as quickly, he recalled that a mere hour earlier—or less, sitting in the British Museum, he, too, was grey; was downtrodden—he would have blended right in. And so he felt for them. What they need, he thought to himself (taking out his notebook, his pen), what everyone, what all the world needs, is love (he wrote it down; it was his manifesto). Just look at how it had changed him. For love (he thought) brings colour; love brings vibrancy; brings life.... One must take the plunge! (And here he almost forgot himself and sprang out of his seat as the tube hurtled along.) And so going for it he was.
THE ANGER RICHARD DALLOWAY FELT towards his father had the effect one often experiences as the result of a nightmare— it woke him up. He opened his eyes, his red, weary eyes. He tried to sit up but couldn’t; he hadn’t the energy. Where was he? There was the wall; there the chair in the corner and the little Constable landscape—they were all familiar. He was home; he was himself, himself some forty-odd years later.
The telephone rang downstairs. He thought about getting up; he should be thinking about the party, he knew. How, for example, were the preparations in the basement proceeding? Was Clarissa at home (for she needed to rest)? Was Elizabeth? What time was it? Not even two; no, Clarissa wouldn’t be home yet. Nor Elizabeth. Had it cleared? (He looked out the window.) It was still raining (damn!). He should get up, he knew, but he was tired, he felt flattened, held to the bed by some great, engulfing weariness. (And Blitzer had encouraged rest.) He listened to the rain as it fell and imagined a large cloak or tent covering London, indeed, all of London and its purlieus. But the effort of such imagining exhausted him even more, and, after a very short time, the rain lulled him back to sleep.
“NO, PETER WALSH IS IN INDIA,” Clarissa Dalloway said, answering Lady Hosford’s question, as bird-like Miss Atkins, who had been with Lady Hosford for some thirty-five years, cleared the table and brought on tea. “In India with his Daisy,” she added sardonically. “Daisy, whom I’ve not met; Daisy, the former wife of a Major in the Indian Army; Daisy and her two small children—a boy and a girl.” To which Lady Hosford, her fat, white Persian cat—Josephine—purring in her lap, simply raised one brow and looked downward through her pince-nez (all the while thinking that Clarissa sounded like she minded, like she was jealous. For she had been there at Bourton, Lady Hosford had; had either witnessed or heard about some of the terrible scenes between them, between Peter Walsh and Clarissa—on the terrace;
amidst the cauliflowers in the moonlight; and finally on that terribly hot day at three in the afternoon, in the little garden by the fountain, when Peter had kept repeating, over and over, “Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth.” That they were in love then there could be no doubt. And still?).
(Leave it to Lady Hosford, Clarissa thought—for she had always been economically precise in her gestures, as far back as at Bourton. She liked that. So that’s what she thinks about Peter and his Daisy. She agrees with me.) So no, Clarissa continued, he would not be at the party tonight. Sally would, yes. Or rather Lady Rosseter, as Sally was now called; living, as she did, in a large house near Manchester (she had five boys). But she really must be going, Mrs. Dalloway said, rising slowly from the table and walking into the front room; finding her coat and hat (as Lynn Atkins scurried about to help her; for she rather liked Mrs. Dalloway, she did).
“I’ve had a lovely time,” Clarissa said, kissing Lady Hosford on one heavily powdered cheek (how she admired great old ladies, she thought; it was because they were Duchesses. How she needed them, too—always had, since she had lost her mother when she was young; that was what Peter had said); she would see her that very night.
“Yes, tonight!” Lady Hosford confirmed, closing the door behind Clarissa Dalloway.
ELIZABETH DALLOWAY STOOD looking out at the Thames. The water was grey, reflecting the sky. She was stalling. She was not ready to go home just yet. At Victoria Station she had been so close, a mere two stops on the tube (or a short walk); and she was so looking forward to seeing them all (especially her beloved Grizzle—for, truth be told, she was of that age or stage of maturity where she still preferred animals to people). But out of the blue (she had not planned this at all), she had emerged from Victoria and set off walking in the opposite direction. Quite surprised her at first, but she knew; she had a mission; it was something she had meant to do for some time, but she hadn’t had the opportunity. Until now. Now. She had to seize it.
The rain had stopped, and the air—even though it was city air—felt refreshing after the trapped, stale air on the train. She had bought a map from a vendor at Victoria, as this was not an area she was familiar with—of which there were many (for she was not like her parents—she did not know the city well).
She noticed that people were looking at her. They must think I’m a tourist, she thought, amused, map in hand. Well, I suppose I am, in some sense. For she had never quite felt at home in London; had always felt something of a foreigner (though as a tourist, she thought, I would choose to tour elsewhere—Greece; Africa!). But what was it people saw when they looked at her? she wondered now. A tall girl; dark; not unattractive (“handsome” some might say; others might say “horsy”), but still possessing some of the awkwardness of youth, a bit gangly perhaps. For she did not and would not spare herself; she was not a young woman who would gaze into the looking-glass (or anywhere, at anything, for that matter) with rose-coloured glasses. It was far better to be left alone in the country to do what she liked.
She found her way on the map: up Chelsea Bridge Road she supposed she would walk. To what? (What would be the most direct? she asked herself as she began walking, for she was good with maps.) Royal Hospital Road directly to Tite? Yes, that was it. But what was it she was looking for—Tite Street; what did that mean to her? It was a name—a street where Miss Kilman, her former teacher, had lived. Indeed, Miss Kilman had lived there at the time she died so suddenly. That was last year, while Elizabeth was away at school; her mother had tried to keep it from her, both Miss Kilman’s death and the circumstances of it—the possibility (and her father had stressed the word possibility) that Miss Kilman’s death might have been a suicide.
AWAKENED, YET AGAIN; startled by something—some loud, thud-like sound—was that the front door? he asked himself: was Clarissa home? was Elizabeth?—Mr. Dalloway sat up in bed. He listened closely. No. Nothing. It must have been the servants, he deduced; quite a lot of racket they were making this afternoon. But, he supposed it was all right—it was for the party (he must remember the party). He lay back down, his head cushioned by the plush feather pillow; he closed his eyes again and immediately thought of his visitor that afternoon; of Duncan. Would he ever get over losing Duncan? he wondered.
Clarissa had lost a sister. Sylvia. “The most gifted of us,” Clarissa always said (he hadn’t met Sylvia). Clarissa had watched, helpless, as a tree fell on her sister and crushed her; and it was all Justin Parry’s fault, people said. It must have been horrible for her. But they had never discussed their losses, he and Clarissa, nor the effect of those losses. And yet they knew it, carried it around with them—always; they shared it; and it was, he supposed, a deep, fathomless, unspoken bond between them. Had Clarissa ever gotten over losing Sylvia? he wondered now. Could he ask her that? He guessed not. But he could ask himself if he would ever get over losing Duncan. It was unlikely, he supposed, if he hadn’t already—at fifty-five. So what did one do? What could one do but remember; remember the dead and go on. That was all.
And he had done that; he had gone on; had marched through life—Oxford; marriage; a child; sitting in the House, and... what? Robbie (if that was going on). And yet always—through it all, there had been an emptiness at the heart of things, a lacking, a sort of gaping hole that had not been—and perhaps could not be—filled in Duncan’s absence.
What would Duncan be like now, he wondered, if he had lived? The same. Or at least that was all he could imagine; for Duncan had been frozen in time; was forever young. But digging deeper now, he supposed that Duncan really would be much the same; would have held onto, and continued to fight for his ideals, and thus remained young and alive—for Duncan was nothing if not passionate; indeed Richard had sometimes wondered if it was that which had killed Duncan (though their father, their impossible, totalitarian father had no doubt played a part).
And what would Duncan say; what would Duncan think of him, now? he wondered. Would he be disappointed? (What, indeed, did he think of himself?) Had he lived up to all that they had discussed those hundreds of late nights—for themselves and for the world? He supposed not. But was it possible? Was it attainable, really? Could anyone? (Duncan could—the answer came swiftly.) It pained him to think that Duncan might be disappointed in him; no, he couldn’t bear it. And yet, he had to admit now, turning the thoughts over and over in his mind, that perhaps Duncan’s death—in some way—had set him up for the very life he had lived; that perhaps he had read Duncan’s passion (wrongly?) as a sort of cautionary tale, and had lived his life accordingly. Oh, but it was no use second-guessing.
(A seemingly muffled Big Ben struck the hour—one, two; the atoms of the golden rings, though somewhat dispersed, floated; settled; melted.)
When was it, Richard Dalloway wondered, that he and Duncan had taken on their distinct and separate personalities? For when they were very young, and up to a certain age, they had seemed quite alike, almost interchangeable. But at around—age ten or so was it?—Duncan had changed; he had become quieter, a reader (he loved the Romantic poets—Keats, Byron, Shelley). He had become introspective, yet he was still capable of surprising one by his boldness, a boldness which always sprang from thought. Whereas he, young Richard, had gone on as he always had—loving the outdoors best and spending the majority of his time there.
There were the violets on the floor with small clumps of dirt about them (he had forgotten). What was it that poor chap had been singing outside the tube station? Something about a violet in youth. That was Duncan. Yes. How he missed him. But how many fond memories he had, too. One came to him now, as if it were a kind of signal or symbol, representing something larger than itself, or so he took it. He remembered that hot summer day when the family was visiting their Uncle Gerald’s. Most of the clan had chosen to stay inside, out of the daunting sun—a terrible week-long heat wave had gripped the country, but he and Duncan and cousin Philip had walked down to the lake behind the house. (It had been Duncan’s idea, walking down to the
lake, which he had proposed to Richard, hoping to get away from Philip. But Philip had followed.) He must have been about twelve, Duncan eleven, and Philip around the same age. Walking down by the lake, wearing their usual summer outfits—short pants, knee-socks, shoes, and shirt, suffering in the sun, sweating profusely, Duncan suddenly suggested that they seek relief by jumping into the water.
“Brilliant!” Richard had said (for he was in his element), looking at Duncan, surprised.
But Philip just stood there, eyeing both of them. “We can’t possibly jump in with our clothes on. It might ruin them, and then our mums would be cross.”
“Then we shall take them off,” Duncan said, looking at Richard as he said it, with an oh-so-slight smile curling imperceptibly at the corners of his beautiful mouth (which Richard thought only he could see).
Always something of a prig, Philip had responded predictably; in fact Duncan must have been trying to provoke him. Philip’s face coloured; he said he was horrified by the suggestion, that he wouldn’t do it, and that if they did he would run and tell their father.
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