Mr Dalloway

by Robin Lippincott

  Katherine grabbed Clarissa by the upper arms and pulled her close, in an embrace, and said that she was proud of her as well.

  Clarissa beamed, but she teared up too, thinking of herself and Katherine in such an embrace as young girls—forty, even forty-five years ago—how they had known each other’s parents (Katherine had even known Sylvia and was one of the few people still living who had), and just how much life had changed since then (such as, for example, how seldom she and Katherine saw one another now). “Oh, Kathy!” Clarissa cried, now openly embracing her beloved, childhood friend.

  And while Mary and Flora were off collecting the loose glasses and china and silver and napkins strewn here and there about the two cars so that they might begin packing up the baskets, Lucy whispered to Sophie that Wilkins had fallen asleep; “standing up no less,” she added, “over there, in that corner” (she pointed and laughed).

  And just a couple of seats behind where Wilkins was standing, Sophie whispered: “Look!”

  “It’s Miss Richardson!” Lucy exclaimed, observing the beautiful young woman as she was kissing a man Lucy did not know, his mackintosh thrown over the both of them.

  She was shocked, Lucy said, and Sophie said she thought that Lucy was just jealous.

  No, it was not that, Lucy said, it was, well—hadn’t Miss Richardson come to the party alone, she whispered, which was shocking indeed, was it not? “Besides, I’ve got a fellow,” she added, swooning—“my Paul. Do you have someone special?” she asked Sophie, still whispering, and the tall woman seemingly swooped her head down to Lucy’s level and nodded sheepishly.

  “So you live in Bloomsbury, too,” handsome Ralph Johnson exclaimed, upon learning that Robert Davies owned a home in Fitzroy Square. “Isn’t that a coincidence.”

  My, but this Johnson is a blockhead, Robbie had decided.

  And then (fortunately for him, Robbie mused) the train began to slow down, accompanied by the familiar hissing sounds and the rhythmic clack, clack, clack of the wheels on the track.

  Richard Dalloway looked at his watch. It was 3.30. “We are at Richmond!” he announced. “This is where we get off.”

  And so people began to stir. Those who had been sleeping sat up straight and looked about; wiped their eyes; smoothed their hair; looked out the window; stood up; yawned. While the others, those who had stayed awake throughout, merely stretched themselves—their arms and legs, readying their bodies for movement after a long dormancy.

  We have arrived, Robbie thought, which to him meant that not only would that long, dark, fast tunnelling to nowhere come to an end, but more importantly, he would finally be able to get to Richard.

  Slowly, the train groaned to a halt and the crowd began to disembark—Sally and John Rosseter, Sasha Richardson, Hugh Whitbread, and Mina Doyle, so Clarissa Dalloway—who had been one of the first off the train—observed her guests.

  “These poor old knees,” Mrs. Walker said as she climbed down. “They haven’t been the same since those cold nights during the War.”

  And Lady Vallance almost tripped and fell getting off the train (the lace of her dress somehow caught in the heel of her shoe), her silver-headed walking-stick sent skittering across the ground; but Professor Brierly, of all people, had caught her in his arms.

  Whereas Richard Dalloway, upon disembarking, immediately looked up at the sky, which was fleecy and mottled; but (he noted), at least it was not raining. “Look at the long line of omnibuses and motor cars,” Hugh Whitbread exclaimed upon seeing what appeared to be an endless caravan of vehicles. “All burning pale yellow lights.”

  “We have further still to go,” Richard announced, at which point there was a moan (it was Mrs. Brunner), now calling for everyone to board the first two omnibuses as soon as possible and saying that—once again—the party would have to be split up.

  And so the weary among the travellers piled onto yet another vehicle for yet another journey (such was their attitude), and, once aboard, flung themselves into their seats and glared out the window; though there remained many a gallant one (Lady Bruton, Sasha Richardson, the Rosseters, and Hugh Whitbread among them), who remained upright, awake, alert, and filled with expectation.

  But it was now that some of the previous good humour about the nature of the party began to wear off. Mr. and Mrs. Brunner were both openly groaning and complaining; but Sasha Richardson, who happened to find herself next to them, would have none of it. Where were their manners? Where was their spirit, their sense of adventure? Their souls are dead, she thought; life is too short to listen to the likes of them. She walked away.

  And when the omnibuses finally began to move, to ramble, Robert Davies, having once again managed to board a vehicle separate from Richard Dalloway, began to wonder why he had bothered, why he had troubled to come at all, for where had it got him? Richmond, that was where.

  But Richard wanted to talk to Clarissa, needed to talk with her, he said, for he was afraid that he had accidentally offended John Rosseter. And so he asked her to sit with him and, once seated, began to tell her the story (whispering it in her ear) of what had happened.

  And Clarissa could see, as she listened to her husband’s whisperings, she could see that a few of their guests—those who were looking—thought that she and Richard were engaging in some sort of intimacy (the phrase whispering sweet nothings came to her), some sort of intimacy appropriate to the occasion of their thirtieth wedding anniversary, which (she thought) was all for the best, for otherwise it might have appeared rude.

  No, she did not think he had done anything wrong, she answered him, it was obviously a subject which for John Rosseter must be terribly sensitive. But don’t worry, darling, she said; there they were, Sally and John, sitting towards the front (she gestured towards them with her head). She would go and talk to them, not—of course—mentioning anything about this; she would go and talk to them and—in five or ten minutes—he should come and join them. It would be all right, she patted his hand.

  “Look!” Lady Hosford exclaimed to Elizabeth, staring out the window (for the sun was rising), and the two had somehow ended up sitting together. “Just look at how the fields seem to be ablaze with June grasses.”

  “I’ve never seen so many sheep,” Elizabeth answered her, equally excited, for this was a part of the country she had never before visited, and she loved its wildness. “Do you know the name of those red tasselled plants?” she asked Lady Hosford, who responded that she did not, but that indeed they were lovely, weren’t they?

  “Just look at all these adorable little Yorkshire farms,” Lady Vallance said to Professor Brierly as she patted the hand she had held ever since he had saved her life (or such was her version of what had transpired). “So many of them still lit up—at this hour. Oh, and look! Look at that family, there (she pointed), standing out and waving to us” (she waved back).

  But all Professor Brierly could think of was Dantë’s Inferno, for surely there could be nothing more hellish than this—finding oneself suddenly in the clutches of a very grateful old lady merely because one had—out of sheer humanity—prevented her from falling (which she had misconstrued as saving her life). But if she continued to go on and on like this, he thought, I should like to take her life.

  Hugh Whitbread, sitting alone and studying the landscape (for he must remember everything so as to tell Evelyn), now pulled out the compass he had brought along for just such purposes as this, for he wanted to know in what direction they were headed. He consulted the compass—the arrow was between the North and the West. Northwest, he thought, momentarily confused. North he could certainly understand, but West? Did that make sense? He knew that the North Sea would be to his right, which was East, and he would have thought they would be heading in that direction. But perhaps (he thought now), perhaps there is some higher point inland which gives a better eastern view. Yes, he thought, pleased with himself for his common sense in figuring it out, that must be it.

  Sitting two seats behind Hugh Whitbread
was Sally Rosseter, who was feeling somewhat put out with her husband (she told him), because after all it was her Rupert that he and Richard had been discussing. Nevertheless, she said, he should think nothing of it; for Richard Dalloway was a bumbling, ineffectual... Clarissa, darling (Sally exclaimed, as Clarissa Dalloway sat down behind them).

  No, Lady Hosford said, she did not know the name of that vast castle they were passing on the right at that very moment, did anyone else? (No, no one else seemed to know it either.) But yes, it was splendid, Lady Hosford said; but then she turned back to Elizabeth and said (with a dismissive wave of the hand) that she had seen her share of castles; but they had been discussing George Eliot’s Middlemarch.

  Elizabeth could not believe the pleasant time she was having with Lady Hosford, after having known her for all those years (all of her life, really) and never having liked her. But here they were, discussing Middlemarch, and now Lady Hosford was agreeing with her that Dorothea never should have married in the first place.

  “But do you think it a flaw in the novel?” she asked Lady Hosford. And Lady Hosford, pleased that her opinion mattered to Elizabeth and that she was being paid this respect and attention, brushed at Elizabeth’s long hair with her hand and said that yes, she was afraid that it was a flaw in the novel, a misstep on the part of George Eliot; then told Elizabeth that she could still recall her excitement when, from week to week, Middlemarch was coming out in Harper’s Weekly. “We were living in America at the time—father was teaching at Harvard College”; she said she must have been—what?—about seventeen or eighteen.

  But just where in China was their son, Clarissa asked Sally and John Rosseter, still trying to thaw them out after several minutes of conversation; she knew that getting them to talk about their other sons would do the trick.

  “That’s Gordon, isn’t it?” she went on. “The one in China?”

  “Yes,” Rosseter himself turned around to answer her, “Gordon is in Peking.”

  “Oh, that must be terribly exciting for him,” Clarissa said. At which point Richard Dalloway joined his wife on the seat behind the Rosseters and, observing John looking out the window, put a hand on his shoulder and said “Fascinating country, no?” But before waiting for a response he went on to say that though he would not want to live there, for it would be much too harsh, he did think that it would be a splendid place to pass a week’s or a month’s holiday, in the proper season of course—hunting, fishing, sailing the lakes, walking....

  “Indeed it would,” John Rosseter exclaimed. “You know,” he added, smiling at Richard Dalloway and hoping to indicate (without having to say it) that all was forgiven, “it is not unlike Shropshire in ways.”

  And all the while Robert Davies sat alone in the last seat of the omnibus, his body absorbing the jerks and shocks of the bumpy ride—bouncing here, jerking there, like a marionette.

  “Just look at those two farm women hanging out of the upper windows,” Lady Vallance pointed. “And in their nightclothes, no less. But one must admit that it is a charming sight, wouldn’t you agree, Professor?”

  At which point Professor Brierly got up, excused himself, and made his way towards the back of the bus, offering no explanation whatsoever, for he had had enough!

  My, but she hoped the poor dear hadn’t suddenly taken ill, Lady Vallance thought, what with the thin air at such a high altitude; and he did seem somewhat delicate.

  And indeed, the omnibuses were now climbing immensely steep hills and at such an incline that the passengers had to strain to stay aright. And as the omnibuses made their way, ever so slowly, they were overtaken and then passed by the occasional motor car shooting ahead.

  “An accident would be perfectly natural,” a nervous Hugh Whitbread announced to Mira Cartwright, whose hat had just been knocked off her head when the omnibus shifted and jerked and began to take yet another steep hill. “An accident should not be unexpected in a situation like this.”

  But hearing what Hugh had just said, Richard, Clarissa, Sally, and John exchanged looks, and then John Rosseter burst out laughing, followed by Sally and Clarissa. “Same old Hugh,” Sally said, remembering how she had once told him, amidst an argument about women’s rights, that he represented everything that was most detestable about middle-class life. It was true. And then Hugh had kissed her, on the lips in the smoking-room, to punish her—he said—for saying that women should have the vote.

  Richard, however, feeling responsible for the well-being of his passengers, the party-goers—his guests, jokingly said that he wanted to shake Hugh. For it was so typical of him, Richard thought; he is so like an old maid. Old Hugh Whitbread, poor soul—for he had been old at twenty.

  But beyond Hugh Whitbread, Richard now spotted Mrs. Walker and that servant of Lady Hosford’s, Miss What’s-hername?, sitting in adjacent seats and smoking cigarettes, their faces red with laughter. It served to remind him that he never had done anything about that situation; but it seemed to have righted itself (he thought, rather amused).

  And now the omnibuses slowed down as they arrived at what the driver announced was “the highest point—Bardon Fell.”

  What now? Robbie asked himself as the omnibus came to a full stop. Now that he was sobering up (for he had been drinking cup after cup of tea), he began to panic: what would he do? What was he doing there? He fingered his father’s wedding ring so as to calm himself It would be all right. He would remain calm. And when the time came, he reasoned, when it seemed prudent (and provident), he would simply walk up to Richard and—and what? Should he embrace him? Or merely shake his hand?

  Climbing down off of the bus, Elizabeth Dalloway said that she was astonished at the number of people. Scanning the huge moor, she noticed butts for grouse-shooting and still more sheep scattered here and there; she told Katherine and Eleanor, with whom she’d met up again, and Lady Hosford, who had joined their group, that she had just realised they were in Bronte country.

  The four women looked around. All about them people were camping beside their cars; and there (Eleanor pointed), there were so many tracks in the grass where, up ahead, at the edge of the highest point (their eyes followed the tracks), so many had already taken up their positions.

  But all Lady Bruton, who had stepped off the bus behind them, could think of, looking about, was how—in battle, strategically establishing one’s troops on this Bardon Fell would give one a great vantage point. But then she immediately realised the danger of it too, for an entire infantry could just as well be trapped there; trapped and ambushed!

  The air was thin, Richard Dalloway noticed, thin but fresh and cool too, as he called everyone together to walk to the highest point overlooking Richmond. And as they began walking, Richard noticed that off to their left a group of vendors had set up tables selling tinted glass, film, and protective lenses (among other things), which the experts advised one must use when viewing the eclipse. He had read about it in the Times; such protection, it was said, was absolutely necessary, and so he would buy them for everyone. He would need fifty-eight, he told the vendor.

  “It’s a regular circus,” Hugh Whitbread cried.

  “But look at the sun,” John Rosseter said (pointing), it was at that point a mere gold spot covered over by a soft grey cloud.

  But someone not of the party answered that it was early yet and they would just have to wait.

  And now the crowd, passing out the protectors, looked out at the horizon and over the valley that was Richmond, which sparkled with a few lights here and there.

  People were stamping to keep warm, or huddling close together, some standing outside tents, others beside the feeding sheep; while others, like the Brunners, had bought horse blankets, which were also being sold by some of the more enterprising vendors.

  And Katherine Truelock, standing with her Eleanor, announced to the crowd that she had just met someone, an admirable old woman with a wireless, who told her that the BBC had announced that they were sending broadcast signals (which they had s
tarted at 4.30), and that during the critical period from 6.22 to 6.26, single seconds would be sent out.

  “Imagine that!” Hugh Whitbread exclaimed, looking at his watch—it was 5.15. “Broadcast signals every second for four minutes; why that’s two-hundred forty signals!” It was unprecedented, he said, unprecedented in the history of the BBC so far as he knew.

  “So he can do his numbers,” Professor Brierly said wryly, once again approaching Frank Faber.

  “It is unquestionably Jane Eyre,” Lady Hosford said, responding to Katherine Truelock’s claim that Villette was Charlotte Bronte’s masterpiece (while adding, with a laugh, that Eleanor preferred Shirley).

  But Elizabeth said that she too, like Lady Hosford, was partial to Jane Eyre, because she honestly believed it was responsible for her going to veterinary school. Jane Eyre. And Miss Kilman, who was my history tutor.” (There! Elizabeth thought; I have said it. At last I have introduced Miss Kilman, and she is among us.)

  “Did you say Kilman?” Eleanor asked. “That wouldn’t be Doris Kilman, would it?”

  “You know her!” Elizabeth cried, and Katherine looked puzzled.

  “Why, yes—you remember her, Kate, at suffragette meetings; we were so impressed with her dedication.”

  But Katherine responded that no, she couldn’t honestly say that she did remember a Doris Kilman.