The previous August, it was; around six P.M. He and Clarissa were sitting in the parlor (she was wearing light green) when Wilkins brought in the late afternoon post, handing it to his mistress (it was almost always for her). He had been through this before—coming home early; the post being brought in to Clarissa. And sitting there holding his breath, waiting for the guillotine to fall. In fact he had been through it enough times in those weeks so that he had begun to relax somewhat, to drop his guard. And then one day there it was! The envelope in Clarissa’s hand. He recognised Robbie’s handwriting. Oh! he wanted to snatch it from her and set it ablaze. And all the while Clarissa was talking, casually telling him (as she opened the envelopes, read the letters—“Oh, here’s one from Elizabeth!”) who had written and what they had said, almost none of which he could remember now. It was the last of four envelopes. His stare nearly burned a hole in it; he could only imagine what Robbie could have written; what details he might go into. He pictured the letter disintegrating in Clarissa’s lap; searing her green dress. And then he watched as she slipped the letter opener beneath the flap of the envelope. Pulled out the letter. (His heart was racing.) Unfolded it. (He was dying before her very eyes; couldn’t she see that and put an end to it!) Then she read: “Dear Mrs. Dalloway....”
Backwards, through the thin paper, he could read the words “love affair.” His gaze moved up from the letter to her face. What was she thinking? What had Robbie written? He watched (this was torture!). Her face coloured; his reddened. (The letter was but one page.) Her eyes filled, and tears came to his eyes as well, and then Clarissa’s face and the letter swam in circles about the room, they were all he could see; they were blinding him: Clarissa’s pale, pink face and the white page of the letter swirling in a liquid blur. He waited (but not long). She looked up. She had gone white. He could see that she was struggling to compose herself; to draw herself up. And she succeeded, only he was crying now, openly sobbing; saying the word sorry over and over again, saliva dripping down his chin.
“I understand,” she said (thinking briefly of herself and Sally at Bourton—how she had loved Sally!—and then of all the Duchesses to whom she had been attached over the years and how much she had needed them—needed them still, perhaps because her own mother had died so young. Then Sylvia). “I understand,” she said once more, then taking his hand and looking up at him, her eyes wider than he had ever seen them.
And that was it. They had not spoken of it since. There had been times, yes, when he had wanted to explain, to talk to her, but Clarissa always made it clear that she did not want to discuss it; that it wasn’t necessary; that she understood; and that was enough. (But was it implied, in her saying she understood, that he would not go on seeing Robbie? He wasn’t sure.)
And so he supposed that if it was enough for her, then it should do for him, too, as he realised that, for all Clarissa’s delicacy, for all her fragility, her frivolity, her what—snobbery, perhaps? there was a strength, a resilience, and even something expansive, a largesse about his wife. (He thought of how she was around young people—how she always tried to help them and how they seemed to flock to her, save—he thought sadly—her own Elizabeth.) It was because she understood.
And so it was their thirtieth anniversary and he loved her; loved her, in fact, more now than then, at Bourton, when he had proposed to her. And that was because he knew her better now, he supposed; because they had shared so much over the years (for though it had not been easy; not perfect; it had been a real partnership). And when he thought now about how close he had come to losing her; that he had, in fact, almost lost her, to Peter Walsh. Oh! (he shivered). But she was his and had been for thirty years. And so there was the party, the party he was giving; his gift to her.
(And now he sat up. For I must—he thought—check my list and see that things are progressing on schedule; that things are more or less in order, ready for our departure; we should leave by nine, he reasoned.)
CLARISSA DALLOWAY, LAY IN BED dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief She was being sentimental, wasn’t she?—thinking about the past, about Bourton. Peter Walsh, even now, today, in India with his Daisy, would say that she was being sentimental. But if ever there was a time for it (she told herself), this was it. And so she let her mind roam over that vast and densely populated plain: there was her father, a difficult man; and there was Aunt Helena being cross, presiding over Bourton in her white Cashmere shawl, and Joseph Breitkopf singing badly; and then there was her sister Sylvia (and the tree falling, but—oh, no, she couldn’t think of Sylvia now!). And so her mind, trained after so many years to do as she asked, moved on. There was Sally Seton—in her bedroom, on the terrace; there Peter Walsh amidst the cauliflowers in the moonlight (how they had quarrelled!); and there, above all, was her Richard, seated at the table—and Sally calling him “My name is Dalloway” because he had been mistaken for Wickham! (Now she listened for sounds of him above, but all was quiet.) She and Richard. He had proposed; and she had accepted. For she knew, somehow, by the way they were together, with each other, the comfort, the solace they shared, the equality, that he would let her be; she knew, despite how much she had loved Peter Walsh once, despite how much she owed him and how much fun they had had together, she knew, as a woman knows these things, that she and Richard were right. It was really that simple. And so she was being sentimental. And why not? Well, there was the celebration to consider; the party; her dress.
EXHAUSTED AFTER HER LONG TRAIN TRIP and her search for some truth about Miss Kilman’s life, Elizabeth, back in her old room, lying on her own bed (atop her pink spread), had fallen asleep, with Grizzle at her side—snuggled up as close as he could possibly get. And as evening separated from day and lengthened across the walls (as a hand passing over a candle will create a shadow), Elizabeth dreamt an animal dream. She had had animal dreams often enough, only this one was truly odd (perhaps because the animal Grizzle was so close to her—the rhythm of their breathing and heartbeats intertwined? she wondered later). In her dream, though, blue cows flew over yellow moons and green pigs circled red stars; and she, too, was floating with them, flying—over lilac bushes in late spring; over the steeple of a church she didn’t recognise, at night. It reminded her of some paintings she had seen in a gallery in Paris, where she had gone with her parents the previous year—her first time (it had been her birthday gift). But what was the name of the gallery? The artist? (Her mother would know.) So the dream was bizarre, yes; it was not logical; not scientific; and yet it was not at all disturbing or unpleasant, but was—in fact—rather wonderful. So that when she woke up and felt Grizzle at her side, Elizabeth experienced a feeling of peace, of calm (there was her old wall-paper: the vines of roses she had climbed— with her eyes—again and again as a young girl, hoping to get to somewhere; somewhere else). It was a sense that everything would be all right, which—with the healthy egotism of the young—she took to mean that she would earn her degree; would live on a farm in the country (preferably Sussex), with horses and dogs and cats and rabbits, and maybe even a pig!
BIG BEN STRUCK SEVEN counts (and the golden rings fell, scattered) as each of the Dalloways, in their rooms, now sat up, now thought about the party and began to ready themselves for it. While across London, located between them and their destination that evening—King’s Cross Station—and under a heavy, burdensome sky, Robert Davies lurched, off-balance, walking towards his home in Fitzroy Square. There was his house, same old house (he thought), day in, day out; there was the door. He fumbled with his keys; dropped them; picked them up and struggled to place the right key in the lock (the hole seemed so small). Finally he succeeded, the door opened, and there it was, his house. It was dark (he turned on a light); there it was: the same walls he had looked at day after day and night after night, until he thought he would go mad. There was the telephone, he thought, the telephone that never rings (“a novel by Robert Davies,” he thought. Or “an autobiography”?). He took off his coat and threw it
over the telephone, covering the small table on which it sat. And in that brief moment when his coat floated, suspended, in mid-air, something flew out from beneath its folds, flew out and sailed across the room onto the floor. What was it he wondered. A dove? The dove of peace? Richard wants to make peace? Now, where had it gone? Oh! there it was. Oh, that! (he thought). For it was the invitation. He wobbled as he bent down and picked it up. Then he stood again, feeling dizzy as he saw himself reflected in the glass. There was his face, swirling in the looking-glass. His face, now smiling, for he had had an idea; he knew what he would do. He would go to King’s Cross. He would join the party!
AND SO—REFRESHED, reinvigorated, and reminded of the reason for his party—Clarissa (she understood), Richard Dalloway athletically descended the stairs into the basement to see about the preparations. It was much darker down there (he observed); darker and rougher—he supposed he had been down in the basement only a handful of times in thirty years. It was hot, too. Ah, but there was Mrs. Walker, surrounded by dirty plates, saucepans, and cullenders, who had spent much of her day baking ham and cheese into pastry (she said), packing baskets, and whistling. Lucy, who had been responsible for the shortbread, stood beside her, her hair pulled back into a ribbon; and several other women (for Jenny had been let go and Wilkins taken on after their last party)—hired especially for to-night, whose names he did not know (was that wrong of him? he wondered)—all packing baskets.
The women looked up at him as he approached; they smiled, glistening with perspiration, for both Lucy and Mrs. Walker liked the master, they did, an opinion they had readily shared with their co-workers. Reminds me of my Joe, he does, Mrs. Walker thought (as she had ever since her husband had been killed in the war); and just that morning, marking the calendar, she had noticed it—eight years ago to the day that the Germans signed peace. A lot of good it did her, though, with Joe dead (now she was wrapping the silver in white linen napkins). And how she hated Germans! Still, she had been glad for everyone else, for her country. The War was over.
Mr. Dalloway asked the names of the three women he did not know. “I’m Sophie,” an extraordinarily tall, thin woman said, carefully laying bottles of wine wrapped in napkins into a basket. “And this” (indicating next to her with a nod of her head), “this is Mary, sir, and that’s Flora.”
He smiled; he told them how grateful he was for their help; how Mrs. Dalloway, too, appreciated it; and then he asked, looking at all five women in turn, how the preparations were going, if everything was about ready.
And it was Lucy, seemingly the spokesman for the group (though she was much younger than Mrs. Walker), who answered. She said that yes, indeed they were almost ready; that there were but—let’s see (she counted) one, two, three, three baskets, she thought, left to pack, and then they would more or less be finished and ready to go.
“After a moment’s sit down and a fag,” Mrs. Walker added, at which one of the girls (Flora, wasn’t it?) laughed.
Richard Dalloway beamed. It was all going so well, proceeding smoothly (and Robbie’s visit was now but a slight prickle at the back of his neck). But the weather, he reminded himself: he would have to check on the weather. He reached into his pockets for coins and then, approaching the women, handed each a pound and thanked them. “Thank you all,” he said as he ascended the steps. “The party will be....” will be, will be....
Will be what? Lucy, Mrs. Walker, Sophie, Flora, and Mary all wondered, for Mr. Dalloway’s voice had echoed and been lost as he ascended the stairs and closed the door behind him, and they hadn’t quite caught it. “Will be dead,” Mrs. Walker thought he had said, which—she added—made absolutely no sense to her. But no, said Lucy, it was “will be splendid”; he had said that the party would be splendid. And Sophie thought that she had heard him say the party would be a cad!—at which point there was an uproar of laughter from all five of them. “For we’ve all known our share of them, haven’t we, girls?” Mrs. Walker added.
So Richard Dalloway returned to his room, hearing (as he closed the door) Clarissa stirring beneath him. The excitement! he thought, feeling it now, really for the first time; the excitement of the party. But now that he was no longer immediately occupied, now that there was not some task presently at hand to which he must turn, the prickle on his neck that was Robbie’s visit turned into a weighty albatross. But what could he possibly do about it? (He began pacing about the room.) It was too late for a letter. And when he had tried to telephone, Robbie had not answered. So he paced; so he fretted. And from somewhere deep inside of him an ominous feeling emerged; a sense that Robbie’s visit and what it might portend did not bode well. (He recalled the events of that morning—how he had gone to Robbie’s; how he had felt he could not wait to see him! He knew he must put such thoughts out of his mind.)
But what could he do? For there was the party. He must dress and they must assemble—he, Clarissa, Elizabeth, the servants, and Wilkins, the baskets, the flowers—and then they must leave for King’s Cross in, what? just over an hour now. But then, as he paced, something, what? What was it?—something framed in the window reminded him.... (He rushed to the window and pulled the blind.) What had it been? The way the tree branch, or the shadow of the tree, fell across his window? Something, he couldn’t say what, for sure; and yet it was horrible! Horrible, especially now—for this to happen to him, now of all times—to be reminded of Duncan the day that he died; now when there was the party. No, his mind did not want to go there. So he struggled; he concentrated, focused on the party, on preparing for the party—on what? On Clarissa, Elizabeth, servants, flowers, baskets (and oh, yes: he must dress), then the cabs, and then (was that all?), then, they were off to King’s Cross!
WHAT WAS RICHARD, her husband of thirty years, doing at that very moment, Clarissa wondered somewhat giddily, for it wouldn’t take him half as long to ready himself as it would her and Elizabeth to prepare themselves (which reminded her: she must check on Elizabeth). He still had time. And he wasn’t sleeping, for she had heard him moving about. He’s probably reading history, she thought. (She could picture him sitting there, or moving about the room, walking back and forth as he sometimes did when he read.) Reading history or recording it—for he was writing a history of Lady Bruton’s family (Lady Bruton, who did not like her). History, she thought now, doing up her hair. People were her game. So Richard’s game was history; hers was people. And Elizabeth’s? Oh dear: Elizabeth’s was animals! But just as her spirits began to flag she saw a bit of her dress reflected in the looking-glass. A flash of white lace (and her hair, too, was white). But she resisted; she didn’t want to look at herself; she did not want to see herself in the looking-glass until she had it all assembled and had collected herself, so that her entire countenance and dress, the person she would present that night at the party, Mrs. Richard Dalloway of thirty years, Clarissa Dalloway, Elizabeth’s mother (and so many more selves, she thought now), was whole. She had not called Ellie Henderson to invite her to the party, nor would she, she decided as she placed her hat on the bed, then her gloves (a glimpse of pink, matching her face). She would not, at the last minute, not this time, invite Ellie Henderson; and that was her victory!
“BUT WON’T YOU COME with me to the party?” Elizabeth was saying to Grizzle as he looked up at his mistress while she did her hair. Brushing her long brown hair as it lay against her breast, she thought of a horse’s tail; a horse’s tail flying in the wind during a canter across the downs; yes, that was herself—untamed; wild—like a horse! She was not for parties. And parties were not for her. She would much prefer to be left alone in the country. But, she reminded herself, now taming the wild beast that was her hair by fastening it with a green ribbon (green, which she associated with the natural world, was her favourite colour), it was her mother’s and father’s thirtieth wedding anniversary and she mustn’t be selfish. For it counted for something, she supposed, to be married thirty years. But could she imagine it for herself (now she saw her reflection in the lo
oking-glass)—marriage? It was not easy to picture herself married (she thought of Miss Kilman). No, it was not easy to picture, even though Lady Hosford—every chance she got—was always encouraging her to attach herself But truth be told, she wasn’t much interested; and her mother had said that she was still young. And besides, there was her education to get through, which would take years and years; and then the farm in Sussex, with all the animals. And she would not let a man (for that was her fear) stand in the way of that; not a man; not her mother; not anyone!
CLOTHES WERE STREWN helter-skelter across Robert Davies’s bedroom as he went about drunkenly dressing for the party. He would wear white, satin tails, he had decided at last. And why not? Why bother trying to be inconspicuous any longer? (For what did it matter?) White tails and, and what? A white top hat, of course; white gloves. But what else? White tails, hat, gloves and—a green carnation: that was it! He would buy a green carnation—at Goodyear in the Royal Arcade (for he had heard they grew them there); he would buy one and wear it as a tribute to Oscar Wilde, for Wilde had fancied them (or so he had read in a biography). And he was feeling quite Wilde tonight! But then he caught himself paused and reflected: why was he feeling so giddy? What was there to be happy about? His lover was celebrating his thirtieth wedding anniversary with his wife that very evening. It would be written up in the Times, he could see it: “Richard Dalloway, former MP, Celebrates Thirtieth Wedding Anniversary.” Or, “Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway Celebrate Their Thirtieth.” Husband and wife for thirty years; one daughter; and all of their friends toasting them and celebrating their marriage, and how could the ten years he and Richard had together come anywhere close to matching that? Who would be there to celebrate them—at ten, twenty, or thirty years—to sanction their union, to toast and honor them? (And did it, he wondered now, really matter?) And did he honestly think that Richard would be happy to see him at King’s Cross? (Where was the party going anyway?) But all of this thinking was doing him no good (he thought as he buttoned his shirt). No good whatsoever. And so he would try not to think. He would have another drink.
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