“Such crowded quarters!” Mrs. Walker laughed good-naturedly as the train jerked forward. “I’m all elbows,” she crowed, still laughing and trying to maneuver—along with Lucy, Sophie, Mary, and Flora—behind the makeshift table that had been set-up at the head of the second car so that it might be situated between the two. “And such noise, too.”
And there was a din, Clarissa noticed, while Lady Bruton addressed her, as usual, on some topic of interest to Lady Bruton but of none whatsoever to her—in this case Lady Bruton’s obsession with what she saw as the poor character of the French people (with which Clarissa disagreed); there was a din, that constant buzz or hum of conversation which always signalled that a party was going well. But it was early, she reminded herself, it was early, and there was the novelty of the party being on a train: she must stay on her guard. And as she looked about, noticing that some people were sitting, some standing, suddenly, above all the noise she heard her husband’s voice; he was asking everyone to please open their windows, for between the sweet, pungent smell of the flowers and the crowded cars, he said....
There is Richard (Lady Bruton thought), asking people to open windows. And it was stuffy in there; otherwise, she supposed, they might all suffocate (and here a picture briefly formed in her mind of the train arriving at its destination, the doors being opened and all of the passengers on those two cars being found dead on the floor, like so many soldiers in the trenches of a battlefield). But she must seek out Richard—they had not yet seen one another; they would talk; for, looking through her family papers one evening last week, to which there had recently been fresh additions, she had discovered something new and astonishing about her uncle, Sir General Talbot Moore, something which—she knew—Richard would be interested to hear. She liked Richard Dalloway, she found him admirable; he had a certain—what was it ?—a certain something (for she was not good with words). What a relief it would be, too, talking with him after spending time with Clarissa, which was like talking to—what? To thin air. It had always been like that; it was a feeling of immateriality; of insubstantiality, as if—whatever one’s thoughts and opinions were on this or that, whatever one had to say, was unimportant; made no difference whatsoever; floated off and vanished. No, Lady Bruton thought, she did not understand such marriages as Richard and Clarissa Dalloway’s. (Should Richard, therefore, be regarded as less admirable because of it ? she asked herself. Now there was a question for the philosophers.) And to have lasted thirty years! Well, she was certainly glad that she had not married.
But wasn’t that that Mr. Faber who had visited Father this afternoon? Elizabeth Dalloway asked herself as the train began to pick up speed leaving the station. She had observed the man dressed all in white (save for a silly, rather sad, and soiled-looking green carnation) and slumped down in the last seat, glistening with perspiration. Yes, she thought so. And then she had a most amusing thought—that because his face was gleaming and his white tuxedo so shiny, he looked rather like the mercury in a thermometer of someone with a very high fever. (Will he gauge the temperature of the party? she wondered). And, she continued, trying to amuse and distract herself (for she would much prefer to be alone in the country), he looked, too, like the White Rabbit in Lewis Carroll’s book. But she would have to find Katherine Truelock and her friend again, Miss What’shername ?, Elizabeth resolved (playing with her long hair), for they had been fun to talk with. Or interesting, as the adults would say. She looked back and into the crowded car now only to see Lady Hosford slowly edging towards her—like a burrowing mole (Elizabeth thought). Or a snail. And in response, she spun around quickly and approached Mr. Faber; she said hello, re-introduced herself, and then tried to appear engaged with him (as Lady Hosford neared) as she asked if he remembered meeting her that afternoon.
“Yes, of course I remember you,” Robbie said, sitting up in his seat, running one hand through his hair and hoping that he appeared—at least relatively—sober. “Yes, how are you?” he went on (for he was grateful for the company). “Elizabeth, isn’t it? Awfully hot in here...” (and all the while thinking that this Elizabeth must look like her mother, for she did not look at all like Richard).
And Elizabeth said that yes, it was hot, and that she would much prefer to be out there (she gestured towards the window), where she was sure it must be cool.
“Yes, and it has stopped raining,” Robbie said, fanning himself with his hand, glancing out the window and noting that he felt rather sorry for the poor girl, for she seemed quite out of place; uncomfortable. Like him (he thought now). And so he would go along with her; he would make small talk. But then he could think of nothing further to say and nor, it seemed, could she. And so, just as both of them earlier that afternoon had turned their gaze up the stairway in anticipation of Richard Dalloway’s descent, Robert Davies and Elizabeth Dalloway now turned and looked into the crowd of party-goers, seeking—once again—some interruption, some relief from this terrible awkwardness.
But she was in Florence in May, the grey and misty vision that was Sasha Richardson said to Clarissa Dalloway, responding to the question of why on earth she had not attended the Chelsea Flower Show last month, which Clarissa told her had been “splendid!”—a big improvement over the previous year’s show (which, in all fairness, had been hurt by the bad winter they’d had).
In Florence with her father (Sasha Richardson added); he had been there on business. And so she was left to herself most days; free to roam the city (she blew perfect smoke-rings out into the car). She had walked endlessly, she said (rather blandly, Clarissa thought; rather listlessly)—along the Arno; across the Ponte de Vecchio; into the Uffizi Gallery....
How lovely for her! Clarissa said enthusiastically, for she wanted in the worst way to cheer, to save, this poor lost soul; for life was valuable, and all-too brief, and Sasha Richardson, all of what—twenty-three?—must be taught that, she must know it in her heart.
But the last time she had been on the continent—Sasha was fortunate to have gone so recently, Clarissa continued—was the previous year when she and Richard had taken Elizabeth on her first trip to Paris (which Elizabeth had of course loved). Oh, but yes, she too adored Florence, she assured Sasha Richardson now; adored it; she thought the city itself a work of art; in fact, she went on, hearing about Sasha’s experiences made her think that she and Richard should return to Florence soon, for they had not been there in—what was it ?—could it really be ?—1907, twenty years. She imagined that the city had changed considerably in twenty years, as so much of the world had changed since the War; yes, perhaps she and Richard should go to Florence on a second honeymoon.
But Clarissa could see over Sasha Richardson’s shoulder that the servants finally had what Mrs. Walker was calling their “station” set up. Would Sasha like anything? A watercress sandwich? A cake? No? A glass of wine, then? Or a cup of tea?
Should they wait for everyone to come to them, Lucy wondered aloud, or should she and Wilkins try to walk through the cars carrying the trays? Yes, she thought the latter, she said—otherwise, such a crowd would gather and step over themselves and scarcely be able to move, and it would be impossible.
And Mrs. Walker, overhearing Lucy, paused amidst the song she was whistling (it was “My Wild Irish Rose,” wasn’t it? someone in the crowd asked), Mrs. Walker said that yes, she agreed, that she, too, thought it a good idea (for it would take some of the work off her so that she might poke her head out the window and sneak a fag).
But Wilkins was not for it, he said. For he (a complusive worrier) was convinced that just as he and Lucy were to fill and pick up a tray, the train would jolt and rock, and then they would pitch forwards or sideways or—worse—backwards and spill the food and the wine all over the guests. And then where would they be?
“And aren’t the flowers lovely?” Clarissa said to everyone in her general area within hearing distance, hoping to distract them from the servants’ bickering, spreading her arms as if to encircle and take them all in. “Dick b
ought them for me this morning.”
Following the voice she had heard saying something about the flowers, “Clarissa’s voice,” Sally Rosseter told her husband (for she would know it anywhere; it was like—what?—like bells!), she made her way through the crowd. (But it was just like Richard, Sally thought, now digesting what Clarissa had said, it was just like Richard to buy the flowers. For there had always been something—was “feminine” the right word? There had always been that something, whatever it was, about him, in spite of his love of the outdoors: it was something soft; something pliant and unmanly. For she couldn’t imagine her John buying the flowers; not for the life of her. Or giving a party for that matter.) But there! There was Clarissa! “Clarissa!” she called out. And Clarissa Dalloway beamed (and brightened, Sally thought) and walked over to her. And they embraced, spilled into each other’s arms, both colouring and awkwardly pouring forth a stream of words (behind each other’s ear, as they embraced) which neither of them caught.
“How marvelous you look,” Sally said now, holding Clarissa’s arms and stepping away from her. “Doesn’t Clarissa look marvelous, John?” she asked (reaching for her husband so as to introduce him and draw him into the conversation).
My, he is shy, Clarissa thought, shaking John Rosseter’s hand. This big, handsome, block of a man is shy (she was touched). She still couldn’t get over how much the worse for wear Sally looked—all the vitality and lustre that had made her so irresistible to everyone at Bourton (or almost everyone, she recalled, thinking of Aunt Helena), all that now seemingly gone. She’d grown even fatter (since the last time she had seen her), and grey, and Bourton was the past—what was there to say?
“How are your boys?” she asked, which was a mistake. For off Sally went, her sails puffed—how this one was at Oxford; that one in China working as a missionary, and this one here and that one there and, oh, her youngest, Rupert.... “And Elizabeth?” Sally finally asked when she had come to the end of her maternal rhapsody: “How is Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth is quite well,” Clarissa answered, detecting a note of falseness, or condescension, in Sally’s voice. Or was it competitiveness? Or superiority? “She’s here somewhere,” Clarissa laughed, gesturing out towards the two cars. (But it enraged her, this “How’s Elizabeth?” of Sally’s at the end of her litany about her five boys, as if Elizabeth, being only one—and a girl-was... what? Somehow less. And from Sally of all people!) “She’s studying to be a veterinarian at the Royal School in Liverpool,” Clarissa dropped as modestly but as deftly as she could into Sally’s lap, immediately noticing that her words had had the desired effect, as Sally’s eyes widened—she was surprised. And impressed. Oh, but she hated this competing coming between them; it was so silly. She must seek common ground. And then she had it. “Peter Walsh sent a wire,” she told Sally. “Peter wired us from India to offer his congratulations.”
“Peter!” Sally said, turning to her husband, still trying to bring him into the conversation. “I’ve told you about Peter Walsh, John. At Bourton.”
John Rosseter nodded.
“Do you hear from him?” Clarissa asked.
Sally rolled her eyes (that was the old Sally!). “About once a year only,” she said. “Dull, dull, dull—always about how he and Daisy and her two children did this or that.”
Yes, Clarissa agreed (thinking that love, especially new love, does make one seem dull to others); yes, his letters were dull sticks. But what fun they’d had at Bourton. And so back in time they went, back to Bourton, as John Rosseter and the crowd around them seemed to vanish, to veer out of focus and into the background while Bourton came to the fore. “Joseph Breitkopf’s singing Brahms so miserably” (Sally laughed); “and remember the plans we made” (Clarissa said), “talking in my bedroom until all hours of the night—how we were going to abolish private property? Absurd, wasn’t it? And reading Plato and Shelley?” Sally asked if Clarissa remembered how Peter Walsh and old Hugh Whitbread—Hugh was old even then, though he was but our age—if she remembered how Peter and Hugh hadn’t got on because Hugh was always dropping everything for his “dear mother,” as he called her? If Hugh had plans on a particular day but his mum wanted him to take her to Bath on that very same day, said Sally, his plans would go to hell and he would take her to Bath. “How that enraged Peter,” Sally laughed.
“All those summer nights,” Clarissa went on, saying that not only had Peter not liked Hugh, but he hadn’t liked Dick either (and, Sally thought, neither had she; while Clarissa thought the very same thing, remembering her rage when Sally had said that Dick would never be in the Cabinet because he had a second-class brain). But Peter eventually came around, Clarissa said. And there is Dick now, she observed, having spotted the top of his head in the crowd. So she and Sally remembered; so they laughed; and so the old feelings began to come back to them.
But Lady Hosford had snared Elizabeth and was asking her who on earth that ridiculous and rather disheveled and, she must say, inappropriate-looking man was—the one dressed all in white she had seen Elizabeth talking to (thinking him some friend of Elizabeth’s but not, she hoped, a boyfriend). To which Elizabeth responded, telling Lady Hosford all she knew, that it was a Mr. Frank Faber, a friend of her father’s—that he had been at the house that very afternoon. She tried, without being rude, to move on (for she had something of great import to tell her father, she said), feeling relieved that Lady Hosford had—at least—not asked any of the by now all-too-familiar questions, nor had she corrected Elizabeth in any way nor said any of the things that she usually said.
And all the while Robert Davies continued to sit alone in the last seat of the train car, facing backwards, occasionally having to retreat into the next car (with yet another group of rather startled looking strangers) when Richard grew too close, talking to no one, and no one talking to him. What’s wrong with me? he asked himself Why isn’t anyone talking to me? (He turned sideways so as to look down the car. Well, there was the wine coming his way.) It was as if he were invisible (was he?). Was it what Bob Willoughby called “the Wilde syndrome”? Or was it simply that none of them knew him, as they seemed to know one another—all of them having attended other parties at the Dalloways’ home no doubt (and here he pictured what he had seen of the house). So he resolved to make an effort. He would stand up; he would approach people; he would introduce himself But how would he introduce himself; or rather, as whom? Could he be himself, Robert Davies, or should he be Frank Faber? Frank Faber, he thought now, a friend of Richard’s, he would say. No, no relation to the publisher, though he did work there—as an editor; and yes, it was an odd coincidence, wasn’t it?—but that was life. Yes, he would mingle; he would work his way through the crowd (for he wanted to see what Richard’s wife looked like); he would walk through both cars until—there, there he stood, before Richard. And then he would say what? “Hello.” For that was all he could say, unless he wanted to blow it all to hell. Or, he thought (standing up), perhaps it would be better if he waited, if he avoided Richard at all cost, until they got to wherever it was they were going (assuming that they were going somewhere) and disembarked from the train, for then there would be more space, more room, potentially, for privacy, so that he would not embarrass Richard. But what was this party? Where was Richard going? Running away from him?
Hadn’t Mrs. Vallance looked at him somewhat askance? Richard Dalloway asked himself, looking out the train window (it had stopped raining) so as to momentarily avoid the guests. Yes, he thought that she had—looked at him rather oddly, disapprovingly, meaning to slight him—her old, yellow eyes narrowing; her cracked, reddened lips pursed in disgust. Did she know—was that possible? Could she, somehow, have found out? Or had Clarissa told her? (No, Clarissa would not do that; would not tell her—nor anyone.) But how glad he was now, he realised, that he and Clarissa had at the last minute decided against inviting Dr. Blitzer, for he could just picture Blitzer, with his sharp, pointed little beard, standing across the room—his arms fol
ded over his chest—scrutinising him through his spectacles (or so it would have felt). And of course there had been that fiasco with Bradshaw at the previous party; but oh, he was tired, he thought, as the landscape out the window seemed to rush past him (plunging through the midlands as they were), flashing in the summer twilight—tree, house, field, cow.... It was as his day had been; a rush of images, happenings—walking through the park; the brothers on the bench; flowers at Mulberry’s; books at Hatchards’; going to Robbie’s (and indeed, his recalling all of the difficulties with Robbie, and Clarissa understanding); and Duncan’s visit, and so many memories, including—no, he could not think of that. And stepping back from the window now, instead of seeing whatever it was that the train was passing at that very instant, Richard Dalloway saw his own reflection. It was a sobering sight. For it served to remind him (so he interpreted it) that he must stay alert; must remember the party (life was a series of such commands); it was for Clarissa after all, and whether Mrs. Vallance or anyone else knew about him or not, he should not be thinking of himself; he had responsibilities—the party was his gift to Clarissa (and she deserved it; for she understood), and he would, he must, make it shine for her.
Someone had pinched her on the arse! Lucy whispered to Mrs. Walker, her eyes popping.
“Who?” Mrs. Walker demanded, her hair falling down in ringlets about her face, which was now aflame with colour. She and Lucy looked out into the crowd of guests.
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