Duncan looked at Richard again. And Richard knew by this look, instantly, that not only was Duncan going to do it, but that he wanted him to do the same; indeed, that he was imploring Richard to join him. Then, in a flash, Duncan’s clothes were off and in a puddle at his feet. He stepped out of them and took off running into the lake, and he ran until he couldn’t run anymore, until the force and volume of the water stopped him, knocked him over, swallowed him up. Submerged for a moment, he then re-surfaced, his pale skin glistening in the sun.
Philip just stood there, a pillar of Victorian society, his arms crossed, waiting to see what Richard was going to do. How Richard loved Duncan at that moment. How he admired him—his bravery; his ferocity; his passion.... How could he describe the intensity with which he felt those feelings? And how could he not follow suit? He peeled off his sticky clothes (amidst cheers from Duncan) and followed him into the water. Philip immediately began walking up the hill, towards the house.
Then, instead of staying there in the water with Richard, Duncan had rushed out, running after Philip, and caught up with him. And then he ran circles around him—stark naked—as Philip continued on his way up the hill to betray them. (Later, they surmised that Philip must have given up, demoralised—for nothing had come of it.)
Would Duncan, had he lived, still be acting so fiercely and with such dare today? he wondered. Richard liked to think that he would; yes, in fact he was sure of it: for ever since he had known Duncan—when they were but small children—Duncan had always fought for and stood behind whatever it was he believed (he recalled the countless times Duncan had challenged their father). The more pertinent question for Richard now was—would he? Would he still follow Duncan’s lead (for he was a follower); would he dare; would he take risks? Or had he lost something over the years? (What of his career in the House? “He was fair; he was democratic,” his colleagues said about him. And he had helped people. But because he had lost his chance of the Cabinet, and because he had retired early perhaps, a sense of failure hung over him.) Of Duncan, however, he was certain, because of his belief that instead of being merely reflexive, Duncan’s actions were always intrinsic to, and a part of, his character, his very spirit. Yes. Everything Duncan had done, it seemed to him now, looking back, had been well thought out; it was done because of some principle (he had proposed jumping in the water to relieve their suffering). How he admired Duncan. It was with a fervency, with a fire, that he hadn’t felt since—unless it was with Robbie.
ROBERT DAVIES JUMPED off the tube at Westminster and bounded up the stairs: up, up, up, and out into the grey, London afternoon (it had stopped raining). On my way to Richard’s, he sang over and over in his mind. On my way to Richard’s.
RICHARD! Clarissa Dalloway thought. He is at home, waiting for me (for he needed her; he had said so). But she needn’t rush; nor could she resist one last plunge into the city—her city, her beloved London—before returning home; she was sure Richard wouldn’t mind. And so she walked (she was nearing Picadilly).
Traffic seemed to be quieting as the day itself wound down and tea-time approached. But no winding down for her; it would be a long night. She would buy something for the party—but what? A brooch? Long, above-the-elbow pink gloves? (For she was still undecided between her white pair, or pink, which she would have to buy; she had a passion for gloves.) And something for Elizabeth? (For, Lord knew, Elizabeth needed things to soften her appearance.) Glove shops, hat shops, Hatchards’ book shop, tailors’ shops, Atkinson’s scent shop all flashed and beckoned, their lights—shining—reflected on the wet pavement.
An erect, yellow silhouette, Mrs. Dalloway now entered, now merged, and became one with glittering Bond Street.
I MUST GET UP! Richard Dalloway told himself. Must!Must! Must! That was what life was—endless “Musts!”
Once again he listened for activity downstairs: in the hall; in Clarissa’s bedroom. No, nothing. Not even Grizzle. He had a few more minutes then (for he must get up; must go down into the basement; must inspect the preparations and inquire about the weather—all for the party). But he wanted to remain with Duncan for as long as possible.
Would he have met Robbie? he wondered now: would he have met Robbie, and would what subsequently happened between them have happened if Duncan were still alive? (And for that matter, he wondered if he would have married Clarissa.) It was not the first time he had asked himself these questions (nor, he thought, would it be the last), these questions to which he had never found a satisfactory answer (if, indeed, there was one to be had). He thought that he probably would have married Clarissa, but that he would not have met Robbie; that it was the very absence of Duncan, and the great cavity created by that absence, which had made him yearn for and be susceptible to a Robbie; but he couldn’t be sure.
But a Robbie, he chastised himself immediately. A Robbie—as if Robbie were some sort of a thing, some sort of a type or other (he thought). Really! For the poor boy deserved better than that (and he loved him). But one of the things which made him think that he would not have met Robbie, would not have wanted, needed, craved Robbie so badly, was—oh. It was....
(And here, perhaps because he was entering dangerous waters, Richard Dalloway pulled back, opened his eyes to the room, and noticed the still-grey sky, the waning afternoon light and the way that light shone on the small Constable, illuminating it.) He closed his eyes again; he wafted.
It was—and by now he had slipped into, returned to that semi-conscious state (and his hands fingered about between his legs through the pockets of his trousers)—it was what he and Duncan had done together; what, indeed, he had heard all young boys of a certain age did: it was perfectly natural, scientists said. It was what they had done together only a handful of times—exploring; discovering. How astonishing it all was to him then, and to Duncan as well; but how entirely, how purely and unequivocally enjoyable, too, when he first learned about his body—what it could do; the pleasures it could bring. And to learn this with Duncan (which seemed to him only right); and Duncan’s body being almost exactly like his: it was bliss! But then it was over; he had got just a small taste of it; then Duncan died. Which had left him feeling, what? Incomplete? Unsatisfied? Longing for more? Yes, all of those things and then some. He hadn’t tasted it again for years and years.
And what was worse was that he and Duncan had never really discussed what was happening—what they were doing, discovering, together; it was the one thing they hadn’t talked about. For it was always done late at night, in their room (with the door closed and locked), under the bedclothes, in darkness and in silence. Only the sounds of their breathing (now slow and quiet, now becoming faster, growing heavier—always rhythmic), only the sounds of their breathing, and the creaks and starts of the old house, could be heard.
They made a tent of the bed sheet. And once (and only once) they lit a candle (Duncan’s idea) so that they could see, so that they would have a visual image to correspond to that sensation—down there—that tingle, that almost-but-not-quite-painful feeling of a growing, a swelling, a hardening. It was shocking, yet fascinating, then, to watch—the unfurling, the stiffening, the lengthening: that something which was a part of their bodies could do such a thing, could grow, instantly, before their very eyes, could be transformed, really. And then to learn, too, that such extreme and profound pleasure, relief, solace, could be had, was right there, at the tip of one’s fingers so to speak; oh, it was something! But what guilt he had felt, too, later, for doing what he and Duncan had done together. Now he knew it was all right; that it was natural, normal (so they said); but then, particularly after Duncan’s death, when Duncan was no longer there, so that they could discuss it; and he, at his age, wondering if what he and Duncan had done together had somehow contributed to, played a part in, Duncan’s death (he knew his father would have said that it did). Oh, it was horrible—the guilt! It was a wild boar (he had encountered and been chased by one once on a hunt), a wild boar which pursued him everywhere, which t
railed him, tracked him, grunted at him, and flashed its teeth accusingly; a wild boar which preyed on him, running at his side, haunting him at every waking moment (and at some sleeping—dreaming—moments, too). The wild boar of guilt. He had tried to shake it off—had finished school; had taken a degree at Oxford; had married Clarissa. But no. No, it was still there. And it was still there today even, though nowhere as intensely, a mere shadow of its former self
SO MISS KILMAN HAD DIED, and just like that it was over. Elizabeth thought back to the moment when they had first met; she remembered: her father had come across Miss Kilman working for the Friends; had brought her home to teach his daughter history; and this Miss Kilman had done, every Tuesday morning, for years. But Miss Kilman had also taught Elizabeth something else (she thought now); something more valuable even than history. And it was this. She had said, “All professions are open to women of your generation.” Miss Kilman had told her that.
But her mother and Miss Kilman hadn’t got on at all, though she couldn’t quite say why. Unless it was jealousy?—jealousy on both their parts; for both, she felt, wanted her; vied for her— for control over her (but neither had it: she was her own mistress). Jealousy and, perhaps, her mother minding Miss Kilman’s untidiness so much. For she herself (Elizabeth admitted now, ashamed), she herself was sometimes embarrassed to be seen in public with Miss Kilman: she was clumsy; she gobbled her food; she glared at people; and she was untidy—wearing that same green mackintosh year in, year out. Elizabeth had tried not to let on; and she hoped Miss Kilman hadn’t noticed. Yet she supposed she had known that Miss Kilman was unhappy—she was unattractive, overweight, always complaining about her own sufferings—how poor, how tired she was; how she had been discriminated against simply because her family was of German origin (Kiehlman was the original spelling); and how she felt, in general, that she had been cheated by life. But Elizabeth had thought that other things, higher values—political passions, comrades (sisters and brothers), Extension lecturing, and her newfound “relationship with the Lord,” as Miss Kilman put it, Elizabeth had thought that those things somehow superseded Miss Kilman’s personal affairs; or, at least, that they sustained her. And then there was the comfort Miss Kilman said she found playing her violin in the evenings.
There was Miss Kilman’s number on Tite Street; it was a rooming house. Elizabeth approached it—no, no sign, no scrap or remnant left of Miss Kilman whatsoever; nothing. Perhaps someone nearby, someone in the rooming house or in the neighborhood, knew her, Elizabeth thought, but then just as immediately she dismissed such an idea, for Miss Kilman, she was certain, knew no one (nor anyone her). Not really. Oh, of course, there were those to whom she referred as her comrades: fellow doers—envelope stuffers, marchers, committee members, and converts-to-the-Lord.... But what could those people possibly tell her? Elizabeth wondered now. Nothing, she answered herself; absolutely nothing. She was sure of it. And what had she expected, coming down here? She didn’t know. But having found nothing, nothing of Miss Kilman, no clues, she supposed she would have to think it out for herself She had had ideas already, coming in on the train, ideas that it was the city—the dirt, the dreariness, the crowds, the anonymity—the cruel, hard life of the city which had brought Miss Kilman to her tragic, premature death. And what did the why matter? Elizabeth wondered now. For it was done; Miss Kilman was gone.
And yet she lived on, Elizabeth thought; or at least a part of Miss Kilman lived on, in her, for Elizabeth considered herself something of a mix of her father (and his ancestors); a dash of her mother (she admitted); and yes, a dose of Miss Kilman (and a pinch of Grizzle, she laughed; but it was true—for she had had Grizzle since she was a girl of ten). So (Elizabeth thought now), if she were to diagram it, assigning her father a W, her mother a small x, Miss Kilman a Y, and herself the Z, it would look something like this (she pictured it in her mind): W + x + Y = Z.
So Miss Kilman lived on.
AS HE MADE HIS WAY through Green Park (On my way to Richard’s), just as suddenly as he had had the idea which brought him to where he was and what he was about to do, just as suddenly, all of the air that had puffed up and filled out Robert Davies’s sails seemed to leave him, as—for reasons he knew all too well—he thought of Oscar Wilde (Bob Willoughby had mentioned Wilde’s name recently at the office). Oscar Wilde—whose example had been so strong: what Wilde had done and, subsequently, what had been done to him, had been hammered, repeatedly, again and again, into the minds of the young men of Robert Davies’s generation; he had been a mature thirteen (that delicate, precarious age) at the time. (As a young boy, Robbie had been solitary, and strange—so neighbours had observed and reported. And Robert Davies Sr. reluctantly admitted that his son did seem terribly moody—always either up high or down low, which gave him pause, was cause for concern, particularly because his wife, Robbie’s mother, always a mere shadow in her son’s life, an evening moth, had been the same way.)
But it had been horrible for him then—reading about the trial every day in the Times and having the brotherly feelings he had and which he had had since he was a boy, a boy who had almost had an older brother. Confused by these feelings. Tortured by them. Not acting on them (though it drove him mad). And then Oscar Wilde put on trial, pilloried, jailed; his soul killed—for feeling the very feelings he himself felt; for having done the very things he longed to do. It was awful! And when Wilde died a short time later, at only forty-six, during Robbie’s first term at Oxford, it cast a long shadow over his school years; he became so frightened that the only close relationship he could form with another man was with his father. In short, what was done to Oscar Wilde had sent Robert Davies reeling into retreat—for years.
Now he became a mere shell, hollow, completely deflated—so that simply walking was an effort. No one talks about Wilde anymore, he thought, though most people know, at least those aged forty-five and over, most people of a certain age know what happened to him. In fact, Wilde had scarcely been mentioned for decades (it wasn’t safe), which was why he was unsure whether or not anyone born after 1900 or so had ever heard of him. Since that time, Wilde’s name had all but vanished, was but a joke or a mere whisper on the lips of the very few, at certain times and in certain places, though he supposed that there were some righteous souls in the purlieus of London who still invoked the suggestive name—“Wilde”—(with their eyes flashing, nostrils flaring). They would speak of what he had done and, more importantly for their purposes, what had been done to him, to deter young boys, their sons no doubt, from certain perfectly normal activity. (Some people he knew, like Bob Willoughby, a fellow traveller, had told him that things were getting better in that regard, more tolerant, but he had seen no signs of it himself) And here he was, now with his sails torn and flagging, one year younger than Wilde at the time of his death.
He slowly made his way up to Richard and Clarissa Dalloway’s red-brick Queen Anne house and ran aground before their front door. There he anchored himself; paused; tried to pull himself together. I must look a sight, he thought. He backed up, moved to the side, and peered at his reflection in the window; he raked a hand through his hair. I could turn back, he said to himself It’s not too late; it’s not as if I have to do this. No one knew I was coming; no one knows I am here. Nothing will be lost. But with that thought Robert Davies caught himself, pulled himself up short: for it wasn’t true—that nothing would be lost. Everything would be lost. He would be lost. Richard would be lost. This was his chance; he had to take it. He re-approached the front door. He rang the doorbell.
CLARISSA DALLOWAY TURNED to glance back at the stretch of Bond Street, there, all lit-up in the late afternoon—a jewel, she thought, a sapphire?—as she approached Picadilly, and looking (so Scrope Purvis thought, a Westminster neighbour who was at that very moment proceeding down Picadilly with a wave), looking, in her yellow dress, somewhat gilded herself in that light; for she was, at last, ready to go home. She was tired—Elizabeth must be home by now; she would need to rest
before the party.
INVULNERABLE, Richard Dalloway was thinking at the very moment he opened his eyes. (Was that a bit of sun coming in through the window? And was it that, the sunlight, which had pried open his eyelids?) He felt rested; he felt calm, peaceful. Duncan was safe; invulnerable. But Robbie, Clarissa, Elizabeth, and himself—they, none of them, were safe. Death was always hovering; he knew it. Death compelled; death beckoned and made one long to return from whence one came—from air; from earth; from nothingness. Invulnerable; invincible.... There was nothing he could do to protect them—Robbie, Clarissa, and Elizabeth; he could not keep them safe. Duncan’s example had taught him that.
But I must get up (he thought), and that was something he could do—he could get up each day in the face of it. It was all right (Blitzer would be pleased with this conclusion). He felt refreshed, restored, returned to himself—to Mr. Dalloway, to Richard, Dick, Richie, Rich—returned to whomever he was for whichever person at whatever time or place: he could be all or any of them simultaneously (for he was all of them).
And so he would get up. Now. He would do what he had to do (and what was that?) Oh, yes—the party; he had to tend to the party. He would do that. And it would be splendid; he knew it would: the party would be splendid. (There was the telephone ringing.) He lay back down. For he was not young anymore, though he felt it (or rather he had felt young, until this past year). But he had a few more minutes, didn’t he?
The sky darkened again; the rain resumed.
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