But Lucy said she did not know: she had been standing over there (she pointed); there, where, standing now, Wilkins was serving people they all knew from previous parlies—that poor (beautiful) Miss Richardson, Mr. and Mrs. Brunner, and Lord Gayton—none of whom, she was sure, would do such a thing.
Well, Mrs. Walker insisted, still red-faced, they would have to tell the master, that was all there was to it. For they could not.... But Lucy interrupted her; saying no (and putting her hands on her hips), that they mustn’t tell anyone, for she would not spoil the party. It had happened to her, she said, and she forbade Mrs. Walker to tell Mr. Dalloway or anyone else about it.
“What’s all this whispering?” Sophie asked now, swooping down on them like a crane, and so Mrs. Walker told her and the other girls what had happened, pointing in the same direction that Lucy had just pointed.
“Maybe it was Wilkins!” Sophie suggested, an idea which all five of them found so ludicrous that they burst out laughing.
“Sussex,” Katherine Truelock exclaimed in response to Elizabeth Dalloway’s mention of the place she wanted to live. “Eleanor and I live in Sussex. Near Firle. We’ve been trying for years to get your mother to come out for a visit. The both of you should come.”
Elizabeth said she would like that; she would like it very much—perhaps some time that summer, if it was all right?
“July, August.” Eleanor Gibson said. “Anytime. We’ll be around all summer” (and here she looked at Katherine)—“heeding the call of a rather demanding garden; we would love to see you both.”
And so Elizabeth asked Eleanor to tell her all about where she and Katherine lived and what it was like—for as Katherine probably knew, she said, she had grown up in dreary old London.
While Eleanor was answering Elizabeth’s question, saying that she and Katherine lived in a lovely old eighteenth-century stone farmhouse, surrounded by downs and the river Ouse, and what a difference having a motor car made now, Katherine was looking at Elizabeth and thinking how surprised she was—that she never would have guessed that a daughter of Clarissa Dalloway’s could end up like this; she felt proud of both of them.
Two women, their age, living together, Elizabeth mused, saying aloud how lovely their house sounded. Should she mention Miss Kilman? she wondered now, for it seemed possible that they might have known her (though she doubted it). But yes, she would have a farm in Sussex, she told them instead; a farm, where she would run her practice and have animals of her own—a horse (or two), and milking cows, and dogs and cats, and other farm animals.
“I always wished I had a daughter,” Sally said to Clarissa, each holding a glass of wine as they looked at Elizabeth from afar (she’s handsome, thought Clarissa); (horsy, and still awkward, Sally thought, thinking, too, that she and John could have done better). “But we tried,” Sally laughed, shrugging. “I was thirty-eight when Rupert, our youngest, was born, and Dr. Lawrence strongly advised that we stop after him.”
“And Dick always wished we had had a boy or two,” Clarissa added.
And Sally could just imagine how he would have turned out, she thought—this Richard Dalloway, Jr.
“But I feel as though I’m a mother to so many young people nowadays,” Clarissa went on, “that I’m perfectly happy.” Ah! And there were two of her “children” now, Clarissa said, pointing out Mira Cartwright and Sasha Richardson as they made their way through the car, arm-in-arm. She knew that Sally would fall in love with Sasha, as most people did.
“But tell me, Clarissa,” Sally asked now, “do you know where it is that we are going?”
Clarissa laughed and shook her head. “No,” she said, then went on laughing.
And Sally laughed too; for it was funny—two train cars full of, what?—some fifty or sixty people, shuttling through the midlands in the middle of the night, and perhaps only one of them knew where in the world they were going.
“But what was it you used to say at Bourton?” Clarissa asked Sally. “Something about it being not the destination but the journey that mattered most?”
To which Sally waved her hand dismissively, as if to indicate that that was then and this was now.
And that was it, Clarissa mused: that was what was wrong; it was as if Sally were repudiating her former self
But she was sure John would know where they were going, Sally thought—that either Richard would have told him, for she had seen them, out of the corner of her eye, talking together, or that he would have figured it out for himself She would ask him.
And just past Sally, Clarissa could see the Brunners, standing there talking only to one another, as they always did at her parties; talking and eating their sandwiches. It was either that or standing together and not talking. My, but they are dull, she thought. (But now Lady Hosford stepped into her circle, embraced Sally and immediately lit into some story about Bourton.) Should she make an effort to include the Brunners, Clarissa wondered, to try to bring them into the party (as she always did)? Or should she just resolve not to invite them again?
“Now I’m focussing all of my considerable scholarly skills on Matthew Arnold,” Professor Brierly professed to the man who had just introduced himself as Frank Faber.
But wasn’t that quite a jump? Robert Davies asked this professor, historically speaking—from Milton to Arnold, certain that he could, if he chose to, sustain this conversation through the entire night by merely inserting a comment here and a question there (for this fellow is full of himself Robbie thought, smiling as Brierly began carefully constructing his defense).
“Do you know where it is that we are going?” Eleanor Gibson—her back to Lady Hosford—asked Elizabeth Dalloway, looking at Katherine Truelock all the while.
“No,” Elizabeth answered, shaking her head. “Father has kept it a secret. Even from me,” she smiled, hoping Lady Hosford would not turn around.
And Katherine said that she and Eleanor were certain they knew, and furthermore that they would tell her if she liked. “But you must promise to keep it a secret as long as your father does.” Elizabeth smiled again and nodded, and the three women leaned close together as Katherine whispered into Elizabeth’s ear.
And there were Claire Milan and Robert Haydon (Clarissa observed, as Lady Hosford and Sally went on and on). They were standing in the same place they had stood since the train left King’s Cross; holding hands; looking starry-eyed. I was right, she thought—they are in love. Perhaps they would announce their engagement that very night, on her and Dick’s anniversary.
“But really, you must come visit us some time when we’re at Fellstree,” Richard Dalloway was saying to John Rosseter. “You and Sally.” For, just as he had suspected, this Rosseter was a fellow after his own heart; a true countryman; he had grown up in Shropshire.
“I’d like that,” Rosseter replied. “And you must join our annual fox-hunt in late September.” He was relaxing; becoming expansive. “Manchester is spectacular at that time of the year. And the boys usually all try to come along if they can, from wherever they are at the time. One—Gordon—is in China of all places,” he added, referring to his sons. “All except Rupert that is. The youngest,” he added. “We make a weekend of it,” he brightened. “Sally cooks, and....”
“Well then I think I shall join you,” Richard interjected enthusiastically, thinking why not?—now that he had the time; why shouldn’t he join them? But he and Clarissa and possibly Elizabeth, he told John Rosseter (by the way, did he know, had Sally told him, that Elizabeth was in veterinary school? “Indeed, she is. At the Royal College in Liverpool”), he and Clarissa and possibly Elizabeth were planning to spend all of August and the first week of September at Fellstree, and anytime he and Sally and any or all of their boys liked, or just himself alone, if Sally and the boys couldn’t come; anytime he could visit would be fine (and he was sure it would be fine with Clarissa too, he told himself). They could hunt wild game, he went on; they could fish; they could go punting in the river—“Sally and Clarissa coul
d join us for that, if they liked.”
“Weren’t they, Clarissa?” Sally asked her. But Clarissa Dalloway had not been listening.
“Weren’t they what?” she answered, telling Sally that she hadn’t heard her over the crowd.
“Lady Hosford and I were just saying how splendid those summers at Bourton were.”
“Of another era,” Lady Hosford added wistfully; she had been born shortly after Queen Victoria took the throne.
“Oh my, yes,” Clarissa Dalloway said now, thinking that it was those summers at Bourton which had spun her off into adult life; for it was there that she had met Sally, Peter Walsh, and most importantly, she supposed, Richard. (But it was there, too, she thought silently, that she had stood alone at the windows; waiting.)
“Ah, love, let us be true to one another...” Lady Bruton now overheard someone say. But who was speaking? The voice was familiar; she was certain she had heard it somewhere before. She turned around and saw, there, backed into a corner—it was that professor, Professor What’shisname? He taught at, oh, where was it?—not Oxford or Cambridge; not one of the big schools. She had met him at another of Richard’s parties; literature was his field; she remembered that; he had a specialty he was always spouting off about—some obscure writer. It was him, that professor, speaking to another man, someone she did not know, tall and thin and dressed all in white. But had she heard right? Had the professor actually addressed this fellow as “love,” right there in front of everyone? Well, of course she knew such a thing existed, but not that she herself had ever witnessed, certainly not in her family, not in the military, and not at one of Richard Dalloway’s parties either! Really, the nerve of some people (she thought). I, for one, am offended; and I am sure I am not alone. They should be thrown off the train! Where was Richard? She would tell him at once.
“And we are here as on a darkling plain/Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,/Where ignorant armies clash by night.”
Robert Davies applauded softly so as not to call attention to himself (but to appease Brierly), for he could now see Richard (with his back to him), standing at the head of the car.
Oh, he is merely reciting a poem, Lady Bruton thought, feeling relieved. But she needn’t feel embarrassed, she told herself (though she did), for she had merely been on her guard, as one should be. And what was it the professor had said? Something about armies clashing, wasn’t that it? She would have to ask him about the poem and tell him about her uncle.
But then there was a bell; or rather a bell-like sound, a constant ringing—(“a pinging,” Lucy described it); (“a tinkling,” Lady Hosford thought)—as Wilkins gently hit two crystal glasses together again and again and, when the crowd had finally quieted, said that his master had an announcement to make.
And now for the first time since the train had left King’s Cross Station, for a brief second or two, only the clacking sounds of the train rushing along the tracks were audible.
So Richard Dalloway stood up on a seat, in the hopes of looking both ways and seeing all of his guests in that car (for he had already made the announcement in the other car); he ducked his head and held onto the side of the car so as to maintain his balance, while the train hurtled on.
(And Robbie, seeing Richard suddenly standing atop the seat, quickly excused himself and retreated into the next car so that he would not be found out. Ah, but seeing Richard, standing there, Richard’s body, Robbie could not help but think about how their bodies were a perfect fit—even Richard said so; for that was part of it, part of what was between them.)
(“He is going to tell us!” someone in the crowd whispered.)
(There is Richard, Lady Bruton thought; the dignified statesman. He had an announcement—standing there, she presumed, just as, time and time again, he had stood on the floor of the House.)
“For those of you who don’t already know,” Richard Dalloway said, checking his watch—it was 1.30—“we are on our way to North Yorkshire” (he paused and took a breath, giving the moment the full, dramatic effect that it deserved). “We are one of thirty-six trains which are being run from London to view, weather permitting, the total eclipse of the sun!”
There was a collective gasp from the fifty or sixty guests in the two cars. This was followed by a kind of awed silence, as if to honor the ingenuity of their host; and finally a gentle murmur of conversation resumed and there were smiles all around.
“Some fifteen thousand of us are expected from London alone,” Richard continued (far more verbose than he had been in his announcement in the first car, perhaps as a result of Clarissa’s presence?). “A total eclipse of the sun has not been visible in Britain for fifty years! And at North Yorkshire we will be in what they call ‘the totality belt’” (he paused and looked at Clarissa, who held her hands over her heart and looked back at him admiringly). “Which simply means that is where the totality of the eclipse will be most fully visible.”
(Here Hugh Whitbread consulted his clippings from that morning’s Times, finding the map depicting this belt of totality. He ran his finger over the page: it ranged, he noted, from around Sunderland in the north, to Saltburn in the south.)
Again the crowd seemed to take in air, to momentarily hold its breath and release it. And then they applauded him (and he bowed). And slowly, as the applause died out and Richard Dalloway stepped down from the seat on which he had been standing and proceeded in the direction of his wife, conversation once again resumed.
“I was right!” Hugh Whitbread said proudly to Sasha Richardson, whom he had known since she was a baby. Nothing gets by me (he thought, fingering his lapels and taking a bite out of yet another ham sandwich). What Evelyn was missing, he exclaimed to Sasha (who, finding him a bore but being too polite to show it, nodded graciously and lit another cigarette), thinking, too, that Evelyn missed sharing so many of life’s experiences with him; he might as well live alone.
And Elizabeth Dalloway smiled at Katherine Truelock and Eleanor Gibson: the secret they had shared with her was now out; and she was so proud of her father.
“And we will be on a darkling plain,” Professor Brierly said with a smirk, modifying Matthew Arnold in response to Richard Dalloway’s announcement. He was speaking, once again, to Robert Davies, who had re-entered the car as soon as he’d seen Richard stand down (for he had found it somewhat humiliating, humiliating and perhaps all-too symbolic, standing in the next car and peering through the window, and he had wanted to put an end to it as quickly as possible).
But what was it Richard had said? Robbie wondered now. Perhaps... (he thought). No. But he could think it; hope it— that Richard had renounced his marriage and proclaimed his love for him. But he knew that Richard had most likely announced their destination. He would have to ask this Brierly fellow, if he could get a word in. For there was something terribly unnerving to him about this speeding through the darkness and not knowing where one was going. It was a feeling he had experienced many times in his life, the absurd feeling that he was hurrying nowhere fast—and all the while the bell clocks were ringing off the time. At such moments his heart raced and his pulse seemingly pumped volumes of blood through his veins in a very short time, and all the while his breathing sounded like so many horses cantering across an open field. And to what end? For what purpose? He did not know if he should slow down, or reverse direction. It seemed a pointless, too rapid journey with no destination, the mere thought of which was terrifying.
“What a marvelous idea!” Clarissa Dalloway said, now embracing her husband, standing—as she had been during his announcement—with Sally Rosseter and Lady Hosford. To blend their thirtieth wedding anniversary, she said, not only to Richard but to everyone within hearing distance (pearl, was it? she knew that the fiftieth was gold), to blend their anniversary and the other important event of the day—a total eclipse of the sun. It was an idea, she said, she was convinced only her Dick could have come up with.
Again there was a small round of applause. And John Rosse
ter, standing behind his wife, extended his hand to Richard Dalloway, congratulating him on what he proclaimed “a splendid idea.”
Whereupon Lady Bruton said that she, too, found it admirable; heroic, even.
And Richard Dalloway, blushing, did feel proud.
Then Sally took over and immediately began to tease him, saying how surprised she was—that this was the sort of grand gesture which seemed more characteristic of Wickham than “‘My name is Dalloway.’”
But her joke fell flat. John Rosseter, clearly embarrassed, looked away; Richard and Clarissa exchanged the quick, sympathetically expressive glances of two people whose lives were irrevocably intertwined.
But then Sally, trying to recover, raised her glass and—in a loud voice—announced a toast: “To the Dalloways!”
“To the Dalloways!” the guests echoed, as the ring of their glasses touching resounded throughout the two cars.
And Lady Hosford, still puzzled by Sally’s attempted jokes, said, “Thirty years.”
“Yes,” Clarissa said, looking into her husband’s eyes. “How time has flown; it seems more like three....”
“And here’s to thirty more!” Hugh Whitbread called out, and again the glasses rang.
He was beside himself, Wilkins said to Lucy and Mrs. Walker; beside himself with joy. For he had been reading all about this eclipse in the papers, and now he would witness it for himself, first-hand. It was something to tell his cronies about, it was.
And Mrs. Walker exclaimed that it might be something of a miracle but it still wouldn’t bring her dear Joe back; and Lucy said she only wished that Paul was there to see it with her.
She and Eleanor had been excited about this day, the eclipse, for weeks and weeks, Katherine Truelock told Elizabeth now. They had been so proud to read in that morning’s Times that an American woman—her name was Caroline Furness, Katherine said she believed—an American woman who directed the observatory at Vassar College in New York, this Caroline Furness, a woman, was travelling over to watch what was called the “flash spectrum.”
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