"I should like to see Mr. Dubonnet," said Hugh in his curt worldly
way. It appeared that this Dubonnet had the measurements of Mrs.
Whitbread's neck, or, more strangely still, knew her views upon Spanish
jewellery and the extent of her possessions in that line (which Hugh
could not remember). All of which seemed to Richard Dalloway awfully
odd. For he never gave Clarissa presents, except a bracelet two or three
years ago, which had not been a success. She never wore it. It pained him
to remember that she never wore it. And as a single spider's thread after
wavering here and there attaches itself to the point of a leaf, so Richard's
mind, recovering from its lethargy, set now on his wife, Clarissa, whom
Peter Walsh had loved so passionately; and Richard had had a sudden
vision of her there at luncheon; of himself and Clarissa; of their life to-
gether; and he drew the tray of old jewels towards him, and taking up
first this brooch then that ring, "How much is that?" he asked, but
doubted his own taste. He wanted to open the drawing-room door and
come in holding out something; a present for Clarissa. Only what? But
Hugh was on his legs again. He was unspeakably pompous. Really, after
dealing here for thirty-five years he was not going to be put off by a mere
boy who did not know his business. For Dubonnet, it seemed, was out,
and Hugh would not buy anything until Mr. Dubonnet chose to be in; at
which the youth flushed and bowed his correct little bow. It was all per-
fectly correct. And yet Richard couldn't have said that to save his life!
Why these people stood that damned insolence he could not conceive.
Hugh was becoming an intolerable ass. Richard Dalloway could not
stand more than an hour of his society. And, flicking his bowler hat by
way of farewell, Richard turned at the corner of Conduit Street eager,
yes, very eager, to travel that spider's thread of attachment between him-
self and Clarissa; he would go straight to her, in Westminster.
But he wanted to come in holding something. Flowers? Yes, flowers,
since he did not trust his taste in gold; any number of flowers, roses,
orchids, to celebrate what was, reckoning things as you will, an event;
this feeling about her when they spoke of Peter Walsh at luncheon; and
they never spoke of it; not for years had they spoken of it; which, he
thought, grasping his red and white roses together (a vast bunch in tis-
sue paper), is the greatest mistake in the world. The time comes when it
can't be said; one's too shy to say it, he thought, pocketing his sixpence or
two of change, setting off with his great bunch held against his body to
Westminster to say straight out in so many words (whatever she might
think of him), holding out his flowers, "I love you." Why not? Really it
was a miracle thinking of the war, and thousands of poor chaps, with alltheir lives before them, shovelled together, already half forgotten; it was
a miracle. Here he was walking across London to say to Clarissa in so
many words that he loved her. Which one never does say, he thought.
Partly one's lazy; partly one's shy. And Clarissa—it was difficult to think
of her; except in starts, as at luncheon, when he saw her quite distinctly;
their whole life. He stopped at the crossing; and repeated—being simple
by nature, and undebauched, because he had tramped, and shot; being
pertinacious and dogged, having championed the down-trodden and
followed his instincts in the House of Commons; being preserved in his
simplicity yet at the same time grown rather speechless, rather stiff—he
repeated that it was a miracle that he should have married Clarissa; a
miracle—his life had been a miracle, he thought; hesitating to cross. But
it did make his blood boil to see little creatures of five or six crossing Pic-
cadilly alone. The police ought to have stopped the traffic at once. He
had no illusions about the London police. Indeed, he was collecting evid-
ence of their malpractices; and those costermongers, not allowed to stand
their barrows in the streets; and prostitutes, good Lord, the fault wasn't
in them, nor in young men either, but in our detestable social system and
so forth; all of which he considered, could be seen considering, grey,
dogged, dapper, clean, as he walked across the Park to tell his wife that
he loved her.
For he would say it in so many words, when he came into the room.
Because it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels, he thought,
crossing the Green Park and observing with pleasure how in the shade of
the trees whole families, poor families, were sprawling; children kicking
up their legs; sucking milk; paper bags thrown about, which could easily
be picked up (if people objected) by one of those fat gentlemen in livery;
for he was of opinion that every park, and every square, during the sum-
mer months should be open to children (the grass of the park flushed
and faded, lighting up the poor mothers of Westminster and their crawl-
ing babies, as if a yellow lamp were moved beneath). But what could be
done for female vagrants like that poor creature, stretched on her elbow
(as if she had flung herself on the earth, rid of all ties, to observe curi-
ously, to speculate boldly, to consider the whys and the wherefores,
impudent, loose-lipped, humorous), he did not know. Bearing his
flowers like a weapon, Richard Dalloway approached her; intent he
passed her; still there was time for a spark between them—she laughed
at the sight of him, he smiled good-humouredly, considering the prob-
lem of the female vagrant; not that they would ever speak. But he would
tell Clarissa that he loved her, in so many words. He had, once upon a time, been jealous of Peter Walsh; jealous of him and Clarissa. But she
had often said to him that she had been right not to marry Peter Walsh;
which, knowing Clarissa, was obviously true; she wanted support. Not
that she was weak; but she wanted support.
As for Buckingham Palace (like an old prima donna facing the audi-
ence all in white) you can't deny it a certain dignity, he considered, nor
despise what does, after all, stand to millions of people (a little crowd
was waiting at the gate to see the King drive out) for a symbol, absurd
though it is; a child with a box of bricks could have done better, he
thought; looking at the memorial to Queen Victoria (whom he could re-
member in her horn spectacles driving through Kensington), its white
mound, its billowing motherliness; but he liked being ruled by the des-
cendant of Horsa; he liked continuity; and the sense of handing on the
traditions of the past. It was a great age in which to have lived. Indeed,
his own life was a miracle; let him make no mistake about it; here he
was, in the prime of life, walking to his house in Westminster to tell
Clarissa that he loved her. Happiness is this he thought.
It is this, he said, as he entered Dean's Yard. Big Ben was beginning to
strike, first the warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. Lunch
parties waste the entire afternoon, he thought, approaching his door.
The sound of Big Ben flooded Clarissa's drawing-room, where she sat,
ever so annoyed, at her writing-table; worried; annoyed. It was perfectly
true that she had not asked Ellie Henderson to her party; but she had
done it on purpose. Now Mrs. Marsham wrote "she had told Ellie
Henderson she would ask Clarissa—Ellie so much wanted to come."
But why should she invite all the dull women in London to her
parties? Why should Mrs. Marsham interfere? And there was Elizabeth
closeted all this time with Doris Kilman. Anything more nauseating she
could not conceive. Prayer at this hour with that woman. And the sound
of the bell flooded the room with its melancholy wave; which receded,
and gathered itself together to fall once more, when she heard, distract-
ingly, something fumbling, something scratching at the door. Who at this
hour? Three, good Heavens! Three already! For with overpowering dir-
ectness and dignity the clock struck three; and she heard nothing else;
but the door handle slipped round and in came Richard! What a sur-
prise! In came Richard, holding out flowers. She had failed him, once at
Constantinople; and Lady Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be
extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her. He was holding out
flowers—roses, red and white roses. (But he could not bring himself to
say he loved her; not in so many words.)
But how lovely, she said, taking his flowers. She understood; she un-
derstood without his speaking; his Clarissa. She put them in vases on the
mantelpiece. How lovely they looked! she said. And was it amusing, she
asked? Had Lady Bruton asked after her? Peter Walsh was back. Mrs.
Marsham had written. Must she ask Ellie Henderson? That woman Kil-
man was upstairs.
"But let us sit down for five minutes," said Richard.
It all looked so empty. All the chairs were against the wall. What had
they been doing? Oh, it was for the party; no, he had not forgotten, the
party. Peter Walsh was back. Oh yes; she had had him. And he was go-
ing to get a divorce; and he was in love with some woman out there.
And he hadn't changed in the slightest. There she was, mending her
dress… .
"Thinking of Bourton," she said.
"Hugh was at lunch," said Richard. She had met him too! Well, he was
getting absolutely intolerable. Buying Evelyn necklaces; fatter than ever;
an intolerable ass.
"And it came over me 'I might have married you,'" she said, thinking
of Peter sitting there in his little bow-tie; with that knife, opening it, shut-
ting it. "Just as he always was, you know."
They were talking about him at lunch, said Richard. (But he could not
tell her he loved her. He held her hand. Happiness is this, he thought.)
They had been writing a letter to the Times for Millicent Bruton. That was
about all Hugh was fit for.
"And our dear Miss Kilman?" he asked. Clarissa thought the roses ab-
solutely lovely; first bunched together; now of their own accord starting
apart.
"Kilman arrives just as we've done lunch," she said. "Elizabeth turns
pink. They shut themselves up. I suppose they're praying."
Lord! He didn't like it; but these things pass over if you let them.
"In a mackintosh with an umbrella," said Clarissa.
He had not said "I love you"; but he held her hand. Happiness is this,
is this, he thought.
"But why should I ask all the dull women in London to my parties?"
said Clarissa. And if Mrs. Marsham gave a party, did she invite her
guests?
"Poor Ellie Henderson," said Richard—it was a very odd thing how
much Clarissa minded about her parties, he thought.
But Richard had no notion of the look of a room. However—what was
he going to say?If she worried about these parties he would not let her give them. Did
she wish she had married Peter? But he must go.
He must be off, he said, getting up. But he stood for a moment as if he
were about to say something; and she wondered what? Why? There
were the roses.
"Some Committee?" she asked, as he opened the door.
"Armenians," he said; or perhaps it was "Albanians."
And there is a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband
and wife a gulf; and that one must respect, thought Clarissa, watching
him open the door; for one would not part with it oneself, or take it,
against his will, from one's husband, without losing one's independence,
one's self-respect—something, after all, priceless.
He returned with a pillow and a quilt.
"An hour's complete rest after luncheon," he said. And he went.
How like him! He would go on saying "An hour's complete rest after
luncheon" to the end of time, because a doctor had ordered it once. It
was like him to take what doctors said literally; part of his adorable, di-
vine simplicity, which no one had to the same extent; which made him
go and do the thing while she and Peter frittered their time away bicker-
ing. He was already halfway to the House of Commons, to his Armeni-
ans, his Albanians, having settled her on the sofa, looking at his roses.
And people would say, "Clarissa Dalloway is spoilt." She cared much
more for her roses than for the Armenians. Hunted out of existence,
maimed, frozen, the victims of cruelty and injustice (she had heard
Richard say so over and over again)—no, she could feel nothing for the
Albanians, or was it the Armenians? but she loved her roses (didn't that
help the Armenians?)—the only flowers she could bear to see cut. But
Richard was already at the House of Commons; at his Committee, hav-
ing settled all her difficulties. But no; alas, that was not true. He did not
see the reasons against asking Ellie Henderson. She would do it, of
course, as he wished it. Since he had brought the pillows, she would lie
down… . But—but—why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she
could discover, desperately unhappy? As a person who has dropped
some grain of pearl or diamond into the grass and parts the tall blades
very carefully, this way and that, and searches here and there vainly, and
at last spies it there at the roots, so she went through one thing and an-
other; no, it was not Sally Seton saying that Richard would never be in
the Cabinet because he had a second-class brain (it came back to her); no,
she did not mind that; nor was it to do with Elizabeth either and Doris
Kilman; those were facts. It was a feeling, some unpleasant feeling,earlier in the day perhaps; something that Peter had said, combined with
some depression of her own, in her bedroom, taking off her hat; and
what Richard had said had added to it, but what had he said? There
were his roses. Her parties! That was it! Her parties! Both of them criti-
cised her very unfairly, laughed at her very unjustly, for her parties. That
was it! That was it!
Well, how was she going to defend herself? Now that she knew what
it was, she felt perfectly happy. They thought, or Peter at any rate
thought, that she enjoyed imposing herself; liked to have famous people
about her; great names; was simply a snob in short. Well, Peter might
think so. Richard merely thought it foolish of her to like excitement when
she knew it was bad for her heart. It was childish, he thought. And both
were quite wrong. What she liked was simply life.
"That's what I do it for," she said, speaking aloud, to life.
Since she was lying on the sofa, cloistered, exempt, the presence of this
thing which she felt to be so obvious became physically existent; with
robes of sound from the street, sunny, with hot breath, whispering,
blowing out the blinds. But suppose Peter said to her, "Yes, yes, but your
parties—what's the sense of your parties?" all she could say was (and
nobody could be expected to understand): They're an offering; which
sounded horribly vague. But who was Peter to make out that life was all
plain sailing?—Peter always in love, always in love with the wrong wo-
man? What's your love? she might say to him. And she knew his answer;
how it is the most important thing in the world and no woman possibly
understood it. Very well. But could any man understand what she meant
either? about life? She could not imagine Peter or Richard taking the
trouble to give a party for no reason whatever.
But to go deeper, beneath what people said (and these judgements,
how superficial, how fragmentary they are!) in her own mind now, what
did it mean to her, this thing she called life? Oh, it was very queer. Here
was So-and-so in South Kensington; some one up in Bayswater; and
somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt quite continuously a sense
of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and
she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was
an offering; to combine, to create; but to whom?
An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her gift.
Nothing else had she of the slightest importance; could not think, write,
even play the piano. She muddled Armenians and Turks; loved success;
hated discomfort; must be liked; talked oceans of nonsense: and to this
day, ask her what the Equator was, and she did not know. All the same, that one day should follow another; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday; that one should wake up in the morning; see the sky; walk in
the park; meet Hugh Whitbread; then suddenly in came Peter; then these
roses; it was enough. After that, how unbelievable death was!—that it
must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had
loved it all; how, every instant …
The door opened. Elizabeth knew that her mother was resting. She
came in very quietly. She stood perfectly still. Was it that some Mongol
had been wrecked on the coast of Norfolk (as Mrs. Hilbery said), had
mixed with the Dalloway ladies, perhaps, a hundred years ago? For the
Dalloways, in general, were fair-haired; blue-eyed; Elizabeth, on the con-
trary, was dark; had Chinese eyes in a pale face; an Oriental mystery;
was gentle, considerate, still. As a child, she had had a perfect sense of
humour; but now at seventeen, why, Clarissa could not in the least un-
derstand, she had become very serious; like a hyacinth, sheathed in
glossy green, with buds just tinted, a hyacinth which has had no sun.
She stood quite still and looked at her mother; but the door was ajar,
and outside the door was Miss Kilman, as Clarissa knew; Miss Kilman in
her mackintosh, listening to whatever they said.
Yes, Miss Kilman stood on the landing, and wore a mackintosh; but
had her reasons. First, it was cheap; second, she was over forty; and did
not, after all, dress to please. She was poor, moreover; degradingly poor.
Otherwise she would not be taking jobs from people like the Dalloways;
from rich people, who liked to be kind. Mr. Dalloway, to do him justice,
had been kind. But Mrs. Dalloway had not. She had been merely condes-
cending. She came from the most worthless of all classes—the rich, with
a smattering of culture. They had expensive things everywhere; pictures,
carpets, lots of servants. She considered that she had a perfect right to
anything that the Dalloways did for her.
She had been cheated. Yes, the word was no exaggeration, for surely a
girl has a right to some kind of happiness? And she had never been
happy, what with being so clumsy and so poor. And then, just as she
might have had a chance at Miss Dolby's school, the war came; and she
had never been able to tell lies. Miss Dolby thought she would be happi-
er with people who shared her views about the Germans. She had had to
go. It was true that the family was of German origin; spelt the name
Kiehlman in the eighteenth century; but her brother had been killed.
They turned her out because she would not pretend that the Germans
were all villains—when she had German friends, when the only happy
days of her life had been spent in Germany! And after all, she could readhistory. She had had to take whatever she could get. Mr. Dalloway had
come across her working for the Friends. He had allowed her (and that
was really generous of him) to teach his daughter history. Also she did a
little Extension lecturing and so on. Then Our Lord had come to her (and
here she always bowed her head). She had seen the light two years and
three months ago. Now she did not envy women like Clarissa Dalloway;
she pitied them.
She pitied and despised them from the bottom of her heart, as she
stood on the soft carpet, looking at the old engraving of a little girl with a
muff. With all this luxury going on, what hope was there for a better
state of things? Instead of lying on a sofa—"My mother is resting," Eliza-
beth had said—she should have been in a factory; behind a counter; Mrs.
Dalloway and all the other fine ladies!
Bitter and burning, Miss Kilman had turned into a church two years
three months ago. She had heard the Rev. Edward Whittaker preach; the
boys sing; had seen the solemn lights descend, and whether it was the
music, or the voices (she herself when alone in the evening found com-
fort in a violin; but the sound was excruciating; she had no ear), the hot
and turbulent feelings which boiled and surged in her had been as-
suaged as she sat there, and she had wept copiously, and gone to call on
Mr. Whittaker at his private house in Kensington. It was the hand of
God, he said. The Lord had shown her the way. So now, whenever the
hot and painful feelings boiled within her, this hatred of Mrs. Dalloway,
this grudge against the world, she thought of God. She thought of Mr.
Whittaker. Rage was succeeded by calm. A sweet savour filled her veins,
her lips parted, and, standing formidable upon the landing in her mack-
intosh, she looked with steady and sinister serenity at Mrs. Dalloway,
who came out with her daughter.
Elizabeth said she had forgotten her gloves. That was because Miss
Kilman and her mother hated each other. She could not bear to see them
together. She ran upstairs to find her gloves.
But Miss Kilman did not hate Mrs. Dalloway. Turning her large
gooseberry-coloured eyes upon Clarissa, observing her small pink face,
her delicate body, her air of freshness and fashion, Miss Kilman felt,
Fool! Simpleton! You who have known neither sorrow nor pleasure; who
have trifled your life away! And there rose in her an overmastering de-
sire to overcome her; to unmask her. If she could have felled her it would
have eased her. But it was not the body; it was the soul and its mockery
that she wished to subdue; make feel her mastery. If only she could
make her weep; could ruin her; humiliate her; bring her to her kneescrying, You are right! But this was God's will, not Miss Kilman's. It was
to be a religious victory. So she glared; so she glowered.
Clarissa was really shocked. This a Christian—this woman! This wo-
man had taken her daughter from her! She in touch with invisible pres-
ences! Heavy, ugly, commonplace, without kindness or grace, she know
the meaning of life!
"You are taking Elizabeth to the Stores?" Mrs. Dalloway said.
Miss Kilman said she was. They stood there. Miss Kilman was not go-
ing to make herself agreeable. She had always earned her living. Her
knowledge of modern history was thorough in the extreme. She did out
of her meagre income set aside so much for causes she believed in;
whereas this woman did nothing, believed nothing; brought up her
daughter—but here was Elizabeth, rather out of breath, the beautiful girl.
So they were going to the Stores. Odd it was, as Miss Kilman stood
there (and stand she did, with the power and taciturnity of some prehis-
toric monster armoured for primeval warfare), how, second by second,
the idea of her diminished, how hatred (which was for ideas, not people)
crumbled, how she lost her malignity, her size, became second by second
merely Miss Kilman, in a mackintosh, whom Heaven knows Clarissa
would have liked to help.
At this dwindling of the monster, Clarissa laughed. Saying good-bye,
she laughed.
Off they went together, Miss Kilman and Elizabeth, downstairs.
With a sudden impulse, with a violent anguish, for this woman was
taking her daughter from her, Clarissa leant over the bannisters and
cried out, "Remember the party! Remember our party tonight!"
But Elizabeth had already opened the front door; there was a van
passing; she did not answer.
Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing-
room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are! For
now that the body of Miss Kilman was not before her, it overwhelmed
her—the idea. The cruelest things in the world, she thought, seeing them
clumsy, hot, domineering, hypocritical, eavesdropping, jealous, infinitely
cruel and unscrupulous, dressed in a mackintosh coat, on the landing;
love and religion. Had she ever tried to convert any one herself? Did she
not wish everybody merely to be themselves? And she watched out of
the window the old lady opposite climbing upstairs. Let her climb up-
stairs if she wanted to; let her stop; then let her, as Clarissa had often
seen her, gain her bedroom, part her curtains, and disappear again into
the background. Somehow one respected that—that old woman lookingout of the window, quite unconscious that she was being watched. There
was something solemn in it—but love and religion would destroy that,
whatever it was, the privacy of the soul. The odious Kilman would des-
troy it. Yet it was a sight that made her want to cry.
Love destroyed too. Everything that was fine, everything that was true
went. Take Peter Walsh now. There was a man, charming, clever, with
ideas about everything. If you wanted to know about Pope, say, or Ad-
dison, or just to talk nonsense, what people were like, what things
meant, Peter knew better than any one. It was Peter who had helped her;
Peter who had lent her books. But look at the women he loved—vulgar,
trivial, commonplace. Think of Peter in love—he came to see her after all
these years, and what did he talk about? Himself. Horrible passion! she
thought. Degrading passion! she thought, thinking of Kilman and her El-
izabeth walking to the Army and Navy Stores.
Big Ben struck the half-hour.
How extraordinary it was, strange, yes, touching, to see the old lady
(they had been neighbours ever so many years) move away from the
window, as if she were attached to that sound, that string. Gigantic as it
was, it had something to do with her. Down, down, into the midst of or-
dinary things the finger fell making the moment solemn. She was forced,
so Clarissa imagined, by that sound, to move, to go—but where? Clarissa
tried to follow her as she turned and disappeared, and could still just see
her white cap moving at the back of the bedroom. She was still there
moving about at the other end of the room. Why creeds and prayers and
mackintoshes? when, thought Clarissa, that's the miracle, that's the mys-
tery; that old lady, she meant, whom she could see going from chest of
drawers to dressing-table. She could still see her. And the supreme mys-
tery which Kilman might say she had solved, or Peter might say he had
solved, but Clarissa didn't believe either of them had the ghost of an idea
of solving, was simply this: here was one room; there another. Did reli-
gion solve that, or love?
Love—but here the other clock, the clock which always struck two
minutes after Big Ben, came shuffling in with its lap full of odds and
ends, which it dumped down as if Big Ben were all very well with his
majesty laying down the law, so solemn, so just, but she must remember
all sorts of little things besides—Mrs. Marsham, Ellie Henderson, glasses
for ices—all sorts of little things came flooding and lapping and dancing
in on the wake of that solemn stroke which lay flat like a bar of gold on
the sea. Mrs. Marsham, Ellie Henderson, glasses for ices. She must tele-
phone now at once.
