mrs_dalloway.txt

	

Mrs.	Dalloway

	

By

Virginia	Woolf

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

Mrs.	Dalloway

	

Mrs.	Dalloway	said	she	would	buy	the	flowers	herself.

For	 Lucy	 had	 her	 work	 cut	 out	 for	 her.	 The	 doors	 would	 be	 taken	 off	 their
hinges;	 Rumpelmayer's	 men	 were	 coming.	 And	 then,	 thought	 Clarissa
Dalloway,	what	a	morning--fresh	as	if	issued	to	children	on	a	beach.

What	a	lark!	What	a	plunge!	For	so	it	had	always	seemed	to	her,	when,	with	a
little	squeak	of	the	hinges,	which	she	could	hear	now,	she	had	burst	open	the
French	 windows	 and	 plunged	 at	 Bourton	 into	 the	 open	 air.	 How	 fresh,	 how
calm,	stiller	than	this	of	course,	the	air	was	in	the	early	morning;	like	the	flap
of	a	wave;	the	kiss	of	a	wave;	chill	and	sharp	and	yet	(for	a	girl	of	eighteen	as

she	then	was)	solemn,	feeling	as	she	did,	standing	there	at	the	open	window,
that	something	awful	was	about	to	happen;	looking	at	the	flowers,	at	the	trees
with	the	smoke	winding	off	them	and	the	rooks	rising,	falling;	standing	and
looking	until	Peter	Walsh	said,	"Musing	among	the	vegetables?"--was	that	it?-
-"I	prefer	men	to	cauliflowers"--was	that	it?	He	must	have	said	it	at	breakfast
one	morning	when	she	had	gone	out	on	to	the	terrace--Peter	Walsh.	He	would
be	back	from	India	one	of	these	days,	June	or	July,	she	forgot	which,	for	his
letters	 were	 awfully	 dull;	 it	 was	 his	 sayings	 one	 remembered;	 his	 eyes,	 his
pocket-knife,	 his	 smile,	 his	 grumpiness	 and,	 when	 millions	 of	 things	 had
utterly	vanished--how	strange	it	was!--a	few	sayings	like	this	about	cabbages.

She	 stiffened	 a	 little	 on	 the	 kerb,	 waiting	 for	 Durtnall's	 van	 to	 pass.	 A
charming	woman,	Scrope	Purvis	thought	her	(knowing	her	as	one	does	know
people	who	live	next	door	to	one	in	Westminster);	a	touch	of	the	bird	about
her,	 of	 the	 jay,	 blue-green,	 light,	 vivacious,	 though	 she	 was	 over	 fifty,	 and
grown	 very	 white	 since	 her	 illness.	 There	 she	 perched,	 never	 seeing	 him,
waiting	to	cross,	very	upright.

For	 having	 lived	 in	 Westminster--how	 many	 years	 now?	 over	 twenty,--one
feels	even	in	the	midst	of	the	traffic,	or	waking	at	night,	Clarissa	was	positive,
a	 particular	 hush,	 or	 solemnity;	 an	 indescribable	 pause;	 a	 suspense	 (but	 that
might	be	her	heart,	affected,	they	said,	by	influenza)	before	Big	Ben	strikes.
There!	 Out	 it	 boomed.	 First	 a	 warning,	 musical;	 then	 the	 hour,	 irrevocable.
The	 leaden	 circles	 dissolved	 in	 the	 air.	 Such	 fools	 we	 are,	 she	 thought,
crossing	Victoria	Street.	For	Heaven	only	knows	why	one	loves	it	so,	how	one
sees	it	so,	making	it	up,	building	it	round	one,	tumbling	it,	creating	it	every
moment	afresh;	but	the	veriest	frumps,	the	most	dejected	of	miseries	sitting	on
doorsteps	 (drink	 their	 downfall)	 do	 the	 same;	 can't	 be	 dealt	 with,	 she	 felt
positive,	by	Acts	of	Parliament	for	that	very	reason:	they	love	life.	In	people's
eyes,	 in	 the	 swing,	 tramp,	 and	 trudge;	 in	 the	 bellow	 and	 the	 uproar;	 the
carriages,	motor	cars,	omnibuses,	vans,	sandwich	men	shuffling	and	swinging;
brass	bands;	barrel	organs;	in	the	triumph	and	the	jingle	and	the	strange	high
singing	 of	 some	 aeroplane	 overhead	 was	 what	 she	 loved;	 life;	 London;	 this
moment	of	June.

For	it	was	the	middle	of	June.	The	War	was	over,	except	for	some	one	like
Mrs.	Foxcroft	at	the	Embassy	last	night	eating	her	heart	out	because	that	nice
boy	was	killed	and	now	the	old	Manor	House	must	go	to	a	cousin;	or	Lady
Bexborough	who	opened	a	bazaar,	they	said,	with	the	telegram	in	her	hand,
John,	her	favourite,	killed;	but	it	was	over;	thank	Heaven--over.	It	was	June.
The	King	and	Queen	were	at	the	Palace.	And	everywhere,	though	it	was	still
so	early,	there	was	a	beating,	a	stirring	of	galloping	ponies,	tapping	of	cricket
bats;	Lords,	Ascot,	Ranelagh	and	all	the	rest	of	it;	wrapped	in	the	soft	mesh	of

the	grey-blue	morning	air,	which,	as	the	day	wore	on,	would	unwind	them,	and
set	down	on	their	lawns	and	pitches	the	bouncing	ponies,	whose	forefeet	just
struck	the	ground	and	up	they	sprung,	the	whirling	young	men,	and	laughing
girls	in	their	transparent	muslins	who,	even	now,	after	dancing	all	night,	were
taking	their	absurd	woolly	dogs	for	a	run;	and	even	now,	at	this	hour,	discreet
old	dowagers	were	shooting	out	in	their	motor	cars	on	errands	of	mystery;	and
the	 shopkeepers	 were	 fidgeting	 in	 their	 windows	 with	 their	 paste	 and
diamonds,	their	lovely	old	sea-green	brooches	in	eighteenth-century	settings	to
tempt	 Americans	 (but	 one	 must	 economise,	 not	 buy	 things	 rashly	 for
Elizabeth),	 and	 she,	 too,	 loving	 it	 as	 she	 did	 with	 an	 absurd	 and	 faithful
passion,	being	part	of	it,	since	her	people	were	courtiers	once	in	the	time	of	the
Georges,	she,	too,	was	going	that	very	night	to	kindle	and	illuminate;	to	give
her	 party.	 But	 how	 strange,	 on	 entering	 the	 Park,	 the	 silence;	 the	 mist;	 the
hum;	the	slow-swimming	happy	ducks;	the	pouched	birds	waddling;	and	who
should	be	coming	along	with	his	back	against	the	Government	buildings,	most
appropriately,	carrying	a	despatch	box	stamped	with	the	Royal	Arms,	who	but
Hugh	Whitbread;	her	old	friend	Hugh--the	admirable	Hugh!

"Good-morning	 to	 you,	 Clarissa!"	 said	 Hugh,	 rather	 extravagantly,	 for	 they
had	known	each	other	as	children.	"Where	are	you	off	to?"

"I	 love	 walking	 in	 London,"	 said	 Mrs.	 Dalloway.	 "Really	 it's	 better	 than
walking	in	the	country."

They	had	just	come	up--unfortunately--to	see	doctors.	Other	people	came	to
see	pictures;	go	to	the	opera;	take	their	daughters	out;	the	Whitbreads	came	"to
see	doctors."	Times	without	number	Clarissa	had	visited	Evelyn	Whitbread	in
a	nursing	home.	Was	Evelyn	ill	again?	Evelyn	was	a	good	deal	out	of	sorts,
said	 Hugh,	 intimating	 by	 a	 kind	 of	 pout	 or	 swell	 of	 his	 very	 well-covered,
manly,	 extremely	 handsome,	 perfectly	 upholstered	 body	 (he	 was	 almost	 too
well	dressed	always,	but	presumably	had	to	be,	with	his	little	job	at	Court)	that
his	wife	had	some	internal	ailment,	nothing	serious,	which,	as	an	old	friend,
Clarissa	 Dalloway	 would	 quite	 understand	 without	 requiring	 him	 to	 specify.
Ah	yes,	she	did	of	course;	what	a	nuisance;	and	felt	very	sisterly	and	oddly
conscious	at	the	same	time	of	her	hat.	Not	the	right	hat	for	the	early	morning,
was	that	it?	For	Hugh	always	made	her	feel,	as	he	bustled	on,	raising	his	hat
rather	extravagantly	and	assuring	her	that	she	might	be	a	girl	of	eighteen,	and
of	course	he	was	coming	to	her	party	to-night,	Evelyn	absolutely	insisted,	only
a	little	late	he	might	be	after	the	party	at	the	Palace	to	which	he	had	to	take	one
of	Jim's	boys,--she	always	felt	a	little	skimpy	beside	Hugh;	schoolgirlish;	but
attached	to	him,	partly	from	having	known	him	always,	but	she	did	think	him
a	good	sort	in	his	own	way,	though	Richard	was	nearly	driven	mad	by	him,
and	as	for	Peter	Walsh,	he	had	never	to	this	day	forgiven	her	for	liking	him.

She	could	remember	scene	after	scene	at	Bourton--Peter	furious;	Hugh	not,	of
course,	his	match	in	any	way,	but	still	not	a	positive	imbecile	as	Peter	made
out;	not	a	mere	barber's	block.	When	his	old	mother	wanted	him	to	give	up
shooting	 or	 to	 take	 her	 to	 Bath	 he	 did	 it,	 without	 a	 word;	 he	 was	 really
unselfish,	 and	 as	 for	 saying,	 as	 Peter	 did,	 that	 he	 had	 no	 heart,	 no	 brain,
nothing	but	the	manners	and	breeding	of	an	English	gentleman,	that	was	only
her	 dear	 Peter	 at	 his	 worst;	 and	 he	 could	 be	 intolerable;	 he	 could	 be
impossible;	but	adorable	to	walk	with	on	a	morning	like	this.

(June	had	drawn	out	every	leaf	on	the	trees.	The	mothers	of	Pimlico	gave	suck
to	 their	 young.	 Messages	 were	 passing	 from	 the	 Fleet	 to	 the	 Admiralty.
Arlington	Street	and	Piccadilly	seemed	to	chafe	the	very	air	in	the	Park	and	lift
its	 leaves	 hotly,	 brilliantly,	 on	 waves	 of	 that	 divine	 vitality	 which	 Clarissa
loved.	To	dance,	to	ride,	she	had	adored	all	that.)

For	they	might	be	parted	for	hundreds	of	years,	she	and	Peter;	she	never	wrote
a	letter	and	his	were	dry	sticks;	but	suddenly	it	would	come	over	her,	If	he
were	with	me	now	what	would	he	say?--some	days,	some	sights	bringing	him
back	to	her	calmly,	without	the	old	bitterness;	which	perhaps	was	the	reward
of	having	cared	for	people;	they	came	back	in	the	middle	of	St.	James's	Park
on	 a	 fine	 morning--indeed	 they	 did.	 But	 Peter--however	 beautiful	 the	 day
might	be,	and	the	trees	and	the	grass,	and	the	little	girl	in	pink--Peter	never
saw	a	thing	of	all	that.	He	would	put	on	his	spectacles,	if	she	told	him	to;	he
would	look.	It	was	the	state	of	the	world	that	interested	him;	Wagner,	Pope's
poetry,	people's	characters	eternally,	and	the	defects	of	her	own	soul.	How	he
scolded	her!	How	they	argued!	She	would	marry	a	Prime	Minister	and	stand	at
the	top	of	a	staircase;	the	perfect	hostess	he	called	her	(she	had	cried	over	it	in
her	bedroom),	she	had	the	makings	of	the	perfect	hostess,	he	said.

So	she	would	still	find	herself	arguing	in	St.	James's	Park,	still	making	out	that
she	had	been	right--and	she	had	too--not	to	marry	him.	For	in	marriage	a	little
licence,	a	little	independence	there	must	be	between	people	living	together	day
in	day	out	in	the	same	house;	which	Richard	gave	her,	and	she	him.	(Where
was	 he	 this	 morning	 for	 instance?	 Some	 committee,	 she	 never	 asked	 what.)
But	with	Peter	everything	had	to	be	shared;	everything	gone	into.	And	it	was
intolerable,	and	when	it	came	to	that	scene	in	the	little	garden	by	the	fountain,
she	had	to	break	with	him	or	they	would	have	been	destroyed,	both	of	them
ruined,	she	was	convinced;	though	she	had	borne	about	with	her	for	years	like
an	arrow	sticking	in	her	heart	the	grief,	the	anguish;	and	then	the	horror	of	the
moment	when	some	one	told	her	at	a	concert	that	he	had	married	a	woman	met
on	the	boat	going	to	India!	Never	should	she	forget	all	that!	Cold,	heartless,	a
prude,	 he	 called	 her.	 Never	 could	 she	 understand	 how	 he	 cared.	 But	 those
Indian	 women	 did	 presumably--silly,	 pretty,	 flimsy	 nincompoops.	 And	 she

wasted	 her	 pity.	 For	 he	 was	 quite	 happy,	 he	 assured	 her--perfectly	 happy,
though	he	had	never	done	a	thing	that	they	talked	of;	his	whole	life	had	been	a
failure.	It	made	her	angry	still.

She	 had	 reached	 the	 Park	 gates.	 She	 stood	 for	 a	 moment,	 looking	 at	 the
omnibuses	in	Piccadilly.

She	would	not	say	of	any	one	in	the	world	now	that	they	were	this	or	were
that.	She	felt	very	young;	at	the	same	time	unspeakably	aged.	She	sliced	like	a
knife	through	everything;	at	the	same	time	was	outside,	looking	on.	She	had	a
perpetual	sense,	as	she	watched	the	taxi	cabs,	of	being	out,	out,	far	out	to	sea
and	alone;	she	always	had	the	feeling	that	it	was	very,	very	dangerous	to	live
even	one	day.	Not	that	she	thought	herself	clever,	or	much	out	of	the	ordinary.
How	she	had	got	through	life	on	the	few	twigs	of	knowledge	Fräulein	Daniels
gave	them	she	could	not	think.	She	knew	nothing;	no	language,	no	history;	she
scarcely	 read	 a	 book	 now,	 except	 memoirs	 in	 bed;	 and	 yet	 to	 her	 it	 was
absolutely	absorbing;	all	this;	the	cabs	passing;	and	she	would	not	say	of	Peter,
she	would	not	say	of	herself,	I	am	this,	I	am	that.

Her	only	gift	was	knowing	people	almost	by	instinct,	she	thought,	walking	on.
If	you	put	her	in	a	room	with	some	one,	up	went	her	back	like	a	cat's;	or	she
purred.	 Devonshire	 House,	 Bath	 House,	 the	 house	 with	 the	 china	 cockatoo,
she	had	seen	them	all	lit	up	once;	and	remembered	Sylvia,	Fred,	Sally	Seton--
such	hosts	of	people;	and	dancing	all	night;	and	the	waggons	plodding	past	to
market;	and	driving	home	across	the	Park.	She	remembered	once	throwing	a
shilling	into	the	Serpentine.	But	every	one	remembered;	what	she	loved	was
this,	here,	now,	in	front	of	her;	the	fat	lady	in	the	cab.	Did	it	matter	then,	she
asked	 herself,	 walking	 towards	 Bond	 Street,	 did	 it	 matter	 that	 she	 must
inevitably	cease	completely;	all	this	must	go	on	without	her;	did	she	resent	it;
or	did	it	not	become	consoling	to	believe	that	death	ended	absolutely?	but	that
somehow	in	the	streets	of	London,	on	the	ebb	and	flow	of	things,	here,	there,
she	 survived,	 Peter	 survived,	 lived	 in	 each	 other,	 she	 being	 part,	 she	 was
positive,	of	the	trees	at	home;	of	the	house	there,	ugly,	rambling	all	to	bits	and
pieces	as	it	was;	part	of	people	she	had	never	met;	being	laid	out	like	a	mist
between	the	people	she	knew	best,	who	lifted	her	on	their	branches	as	she	had
seen	the	trees	lift	the	mist,	but	it	spread	ever	so	far,	her	life,	herself.	But	what
was	she	dreaming	as	she	looked	into	Hatchards'	shop	window?	What	was	she
trying	to	recover?	What	image	of	white	dawn	in	the	country,	as	she	read	in	the
book	spread	open:

	

Fear	no	more	the	heat	o'	the	sun
Nor	the	furious	winter's	rages.

	

This	 late	 age	 of	 the	 world's	 experience	 had	 bred	 in	 them	 all,	 all	 men	 and
women,	a	well	of	tears.	Tears	and	sorrows;	courage	and	endurance;	a	perfectly
upright	 and	 stoical	 bearing.	 Think,	 for	 example,	 of	 the	 woman	 she	 admired
most,	Lady	Bexborough,	opening	the	bazaar.

There	were	Jorrocks'	Jaunts	and	Jollities;	there	were	Soapy	Sponge	and	Mrs.
Asquith's	Memoirs	and	Big	Game	Shooting	in	Nigeria,	all	spread	open.	Ever
so	 many	 books	 there	 were;	 but	 none	 that	 seemed	 exactly	 right	 to	 take	 to
Evelyn	Whitbread	in	her	nursing	home.	Nothing	that	would	serve	to	amuse	her
and	make	that	indescribably	dried-up	little	woman	look,	as	Clarissa	came	in,
just	for	a	moment	cordial;	before	they	settled	down	for	the	usual	interminable
talk	of	women's	ailments.	How	much	she	wanted	it--that	people	should	look
pleased	as	she	came	in,	Clarissa	thought	and	turned	and	walked	back	towards
Bond	 Street,	 annoyed,	 because	 it	 was	 silly	 to	 have	 other	 reasons	 for	 doing
things.	 Much	 rather	 would	 she	 have	 been	 one	 of	 those	 people	 like	 Richard
who	did	things	for	themselves,	whereas,	she	thought,	waiting	to	cross,	half	the
time	she	did	things	not	simply,	not	for	themselves;	but	to	make	people	think
this	or	that;	perfect	idiocy	she	knew	(and	now	the	policeman	held	up	his	hand)
for	no	one	was	ever	for	a	second	taken	in.	Oh	if	she	could	have	had	her	life
over	again!	she	thought,	stepping	on	to	the	pavement,	could	have	looked	even
differently!

She	would	have	been,	in	the	first	place,	dark	like	Lady	Bexborough,	with	a
skin	of	crumpled	leather	and	beautiful	eyes.	She	would	have	been,	like	Lady
Bexborough,	slow	and	stately;	rather	large;	interested	in	politics	like	a	man;
with	a	country	house;	very	dignified,	very	sincere.	Instead	of	which	she	had	a
narrow	pea-stick	figure;	a	ridiculous	little	face,	beaked	like	a	bird's.	That	she
held	 herself	 well	 was	 true;	 and	 had	 nice	 hands	 and	 feet;	 and	 dressed	 well,
considering	 that	 she	 spent	 little.	 But	 often	 now	 this	 body	 she	 wore	 (she
stopped	to	look	at	a	Dutch	picture),	this	body,	with	all	its	capacities,	seemed
nothing--nothing	 at	 all.	 She	 had	 the	 oddest	 sense	 of	 being	 herself	 invisible;
unseen;	unknown;	there	being	no	more	marrying,	no	more	having	of	children
now,	 but	 only	 this	 astonishing	 and	 rather	 solemn	 progress	 with	 the	 rest	 of
them,	up	Bond	Street,	this	being	Mrs.	Dalloway;	not	even	Clarissa	any	more;
this	being	Mrs.	Richard	Dalloway.

Bond	Street	fascinated	her;	Bond	Street	early	in	the	morning	in	the	season;	its
flags	 flying;	 its	 shops;	 no	 splash;	 no	 glitter;	 one	 roll	 of	 tweed	 in	 the	 shop
where	her	father	had	bought	his	suits	for	fifty	years;	a	few	pearls;	salmon	on
an	iceblock.

"That	is	all,"	she	said,	looking	at	the	fishmonger's.	"That	is	all,"	she	repeated,

pausing	for	a	moment	at	the	window	of	a	glove	shop	where,	before	the	War,
you	could	buy	almost	perfect	gloves.	And	her	old	Uncle	William	used	to	say	a
lady	 is	 known	 by	 her	 shoes	 and	 her	 gloves.	 He	 had	 turned	 on	 his	 bed	 one
morning	in	the	middle	of	the	War.	He	had	said,	"I	have	had	enough."	Gloves
and	shoes;	she	had	a	passion	for	gloves;	but	her	own	daughter,	her	Elizabeth,
cared	not	a	straw	for	either	of	them.

Not	a	straw,	she	thought,	going	on	up	Bond	Street	to	a	shop	where	they	kept
flowers	for	her	when	she	gave	a	party.	Elizabeth	really	cared	for	her	dog	most
of	 all.	 The	 whole	 house	 this	 morning	 smelt	 of	 tar.	 Still,	 better	 poor	 Grizzle
than	Miss	Kilman;	better	distemper	and	tar	and	all	the	rest	of	it	than	sitting
mewed	 in	 a	 stuffy	 bedroom	 with	 a	 prayer	 book!	 Better	 anything,	 she	 was
inclined	to	say.	But	it	might	be	only	a	phase,	as	Richard	said,	such	as	all	girls
go	through.	It	might	be	falling	in	love.	But	why	with	Miss	Kilman?	who	had
been	badly	treated	of	course;	one	must	make	allowances	for	that,	and	Richard
said	 she	 was	 very	 able,	 had	 a	 really	 historical	 mind.	 Anyhow	 they	 were
inseparable,	and	Elizabeth,	her	own	daughter,	went	to	Communion;	and	how
she	dressed,	how	she	treated	people	who	came	to	lunch	she	did	not	care	a	bit,
it	being	her	experience	that	the	religious	ecstasy	made	people	callous	(so	did
causes);	 dulled	 their	 feelings,	 for	 Miss	 Kilman	 would	 do	 anything	 for	 the
Russians,	 starved	 herself	 for	 the	 Austrians,	 but	 in	 private	 inflicted	 positive
torture,	 so	 insensitive	 was	 she,	 dressed	 in	 a	 green	 mackintosh	 coat.	 Year	 in
year	 out	 she	 wore	 that	 coat;	 she	 perspired;	 she	 was	 never	 in	 the	 room	 five
minutes	 without	 making	 you	 feel	 her	 superiority,	 your	 inferiority;	 how	 poor
she	was;	how	rich	you	were;	how	she	lived	in	a	slum	without	a	cushion	or	a
bed	or	a	rug	or	whatever	it	might	be,	all	her	soul	rusted	with	that	grievance
sticking	 in	 it,	 her	 dismissal	 from	 school	 during	 the	 War--poor	 embittered
unfortunate	creature!	For	it	was	not	her	one	hated	but	the	idea	of	her,	which
undoubtedly	had	gathered	in	to	itself	a	great	deal	that	was	not	Miss	Kilman;
had	become	one	of	those	spectres	with	which	one	battles	in	the	night;	one	of
those	spectres	who	stand	astride	us	and	suck	up	half	our	life-blood,	dominators
and	tyrants;	for	no	doubt	with	another	throw	of	the	dice,	had	the	black	been
uppermost	and	not	the	white,	she	would	have	loved	Miss	Kilman!	But	not	in
this	world.	No.

It	rasped	her,	though,	to	have	stirring	about	in	her	this	brutal	monster!	to	hear
twigs	 cracking	 and	 feel	 hooves	 planted	 down	 in	 the	 depths	 of	 that	 leaf-
encumbered	forest,	the	soul;	never	to	be	content	quite,	or	quite	secure,	for	at
any	moment	the	brute	would	be	stirring,	this	hatred,	which,	especially	since
her	illness,	 had	power	 to	make	 her	feel	 scraped,	 hurt	in	 her	spine;	 gave	her
physical	pain,	and	made	all	pleasure	in	beauty,	in	friendship,	in	being	well,	in
being	 loved	 and	 making	 her	 home	 delightful	 rock,	 quiver,	 and	 bend	 as	 if
indeed	there	were	a	monster	grubbing	at	the	roots,	as	if	the	whole	panoply	of

content	were	nothing	but	self	love!	this	hatred!

Nonsense,	nonsense!	she	cried	to	herself,	pushing	through	the	swing	doors	of
Mulberry's	the	florists.

She	advanced,	light,	tall,	very	upright,	to	be	greeted	at	once	by	button-faced
Miss	Pym,	whose	hands	were	always	bright	red,	as	if	they	had	been	stood	in
cold	water	with	the	flowers.

There	were	flowers:	delphiniums,	sweet	peas,	bunches	of	lilac;	and	carnations,
masses	 of	 carnations.	 There	 were	 roses;	 there	 were	 irises.	 Ah	 yes--so	 she
breathed	in	the	earthy	garden	sweet	smell	as	she	stood	talking	to	Miss	Pym
who	owed	her	help,	and	thought	her	kind,	for	kind	she	had	been	years	ago;
very	kind,	but	she	looked	older,	this	year,	turning	her	head	from	side	to	side
among	the	irises	and	roses	and	nodding	tufts	of	lilac	with	her	eyes	half	closed,
snuffing	in,	after	the	street	uproar,	the	delicious	scent,	the	exquisite	coolness.
And	then,	opening	her	eyes,	how	fresh	like	frilled	linen	clean	from	a	laundry
laid	 in	 wicker	 trays	 the	 roses	 looked;	 and	 dark	 and	 prim	 the	 red	 carnations,
holding	their	heads	up;	and	all	the	sweet	peas	spreading	in	their	bowls,	tinged
violet,	snow	white,	pale--as	if	it	were	the	evening	and	girls	in	muslin	frocks
came	out	to	pick	sweet	peas	and	roses	after	the	superb	summer's	day,	with	its
almost	blue-black	sky,	its	delphiniums,	its	carnations,	its	arum	lilies	was	over;
and	 it	 was	 the	 moment	 between	 six	 and	 seven	 when	 every	 flower--roses,
carnations,	 irises,	 lilac--glows;	 white,	 violet,	 red,	 deep	 orange;	 every	 flower
seems	to	burn	by	itself,	softly,	purely	in	the	misty	beds;	and	how	she	loved	the
grey-white	moths	spinning	in	and	out,	over	the	cherry	pie,	over	the	evening
primroses!

And	as	she	began	to	go	with	Miss	Pym	from	jar	to	jar,	choosing,	nonsense,
nonsense,	 she	 said	 to	 herself,	 more	 and	 more	 gently,	 as	 if	 this	 beauty,	 this
scent,	this	colour,	and	Miss	Pym	liking	her,	trusting	her,	were	a	wave	which
she	let	flow	over	her	and	surmount	that	hatred,	that	monster,	surmount	it	all;
and	it	lifted	her	up	and	up	when--oh!	a	pistol	shot	in	the	street	outside!

"Dear,	those	motor	cars,"	said	Miss	Pym,	going	to	the	window	to	look,	and
coming	back	and	smiling	apologetically	with	her	hands	full	of	sweet	peas,	as	if
those	motor	cars,	those	tyres	of	motor	cars,	were	all	her	fault.

	

The	violent	explosion	which	made	Mrs.	Dalloway	jump	and	Miss	Pym	go	to
the	window	and	apologise	came	from	a	motor	car	which	had	drawn	to	the	side
of	the	pavement	precisely	opposite	Mulberry's	shop	window.	Passers-by	who,
of	course,	stopped	and	stared,	had	just	time	to	see	a	face	of	the	very	greatest
importance	 against	 the	 dove-grey	 upholstery,	 before	 a	 male	 hand	 drew	 the

blind	and	there	was	nothing	to	be	seen	except	a	square	of	dove	grey.

Yet	 rumours	 were	 at	 once	 in	 circulation	 from	 the	 middle	 of	 Bond	 Street	 to
Oxford	 Street	 on	 one	 side,	 to	 Atkinson's	 scent	 shop	 on	 the	 other,	 passing
invisibly,	inaudibly,	like	a	cloud,	swift,	veil-like	upon	hills,	falling	indeed	with
something	 of	 a	 cloud's	 sudden	 sobriety	 and	 stillness	 upon	 faces	 which	 a
second	before	had	been	utterly	disorderly.	But	now	mystery	had	brushed	them
with	her	wing;	they	had	heard	the	voice	of	authority;	the	spirit	of	religion	was
abroad	 with	 her	 eyes	 bandaged	 tight	 and	 her	 lips	 gaping	 wide.	 But	 nobody
knew	whose	face	had	been	seen.	Was	it	the	Prince	of	Wales's,	the	Queen's,	the
Prime	Minister's?	Whose	face	was	it?	Nobody	knew.

Edgar	 J.	 Watkiss,	 with	 his	 roll	 of	 lead	 piping	 round	 his	 arm,	 said	 audibly,
humorously	of	course:	"The	Proime	Minister's	kyar."

Septimus	Warren	Smith,	who	found	himself	unable	to	pass,	heard	him.

Septimus	 Warren	 Smith,	 aged	 about	 thirty,	 pale-faced,	 beak-nosed,	 wearing
brown	shoes	and	a	shabby	overcoat,	with	hazel	eyes	which	had	that	look	of
apprehension	in	them	which	makes	complete	strangers	apprehensive	too.	The
world	has	raised	its	whip;	where	will	it	descend?

Everything	had	come	to	a	standstill.	The	throb	of	the	motor	engines	sounded
like	 a	 pulse	 irregularly	 drumming	 through	 an	 entire	 body.	 The	 sun	 became
extraordinarily	hot	because	the	motor	car	had	stopped	outside	Mulberry's	shop
window;	old	ladies	on	the	tops	of	omnibuses	spread	their	black	parasols;	here
a	green,	here	a	red	parasol	opened	with	a	little	pop.	Mrs.	Dalloway,	coming	to
the	window	with	her	arms	full	of	sweet	peas,	looked	out	with	her	little	pink
face	pursed	in	enquiry.	Every	one	looked	at	the	motor	car.	Septimus	looked.
Boys	 on	 bicycles	 sprang	 off.	 Traffic	 accumulated.	 And	 there	 the	 motor	 car
stood,	 with	 drawn	 blinds,	 and	 upon	 them	 a	 curious	 pattern	 like	 a	 tree,
Septimus	 thought,	 and	 this	 gradual	 drawing	 together	 of	 everything	 to	 one
centre	before	his	eyes,	as	if	some	horror	had	come	almost	to	the	surface	and
was	about	to	burst	into	flames,	terrified	him.	The	world	wavered	and	quivered
and	 threatened	 to	 burst	 into	 flames.	 It	 is	 I	 who	 am	 blocking	 the	 way,	 he
thought.	Was	he	not	being	looked	at	and	pointed	at;	was	he	not	weighted	there,
rooted	to	the	pavement,	for	a	purpose?	But	for	what	purpose?

"Let	us	go	on,	Septimus,"	said	his	wife,	a	little	woman,	with	large	eyes	in	a
sallow	pointed	face;	an	Italian	girl.

But	 Lucrezia	 herself	 could	 not	 help	 looking	 at	 the	 motor	 car	 and	 the	 tree
pattern	on	the	blinds.	Was	it	the	Queen	in	there--the	Queen	going	shopping?

The	chauffeur,	who	had	been	opening	something,	turning	something,	shutting

something,	got	on	to	the	box.

"Come	on,"	said	Lucrezia.

But	 her	 husband,	 for	 they	 had	 been	 married	 four,	 five	 years	 now,	 jumped,
started,	and	said,	"All	right!"	angrily,	as	if	she	had	interrupted	him.

People	 must	 notice;	 people	 must	 see.	 People,	 she	 thought,	 looking	 at	 the
crowd	 staring	 at	 the	 motor	 car;	 the	 English	 people,	 with	 their	 children	 and
their	 horses	 and	 their	 clothes,	 which	 she	 admired	 in	 a	 way;	 but	 they	 were
"people"	now,	because	Septimus	had	said,	"I	will	kill	myself";	an	awful	thing
to	say.	Suppose	they	had	heard	him?	She	looked	at	the	crowd.	Help,	help!	she
wanted	to	cry	out	to	butchers'	boys	and	women.	Help!	Only	last	autumn	she
and	Septimus	had	stood	on	the	Embankment	wrapped	in	the	same	cloak	and,
Septimus	reading	a	paper	instead	of	talking,	she	had	snatched	it	from	him	and
laughed	in	the	old	man's	face	who	saw	them!	But	failure	one	conceals.	She
must	take	him	away	into	some	park.

"Now	we	will	cross,"	she	said.

She	had	a	right	to	his	arm,	though	it	was	without	feeling.	He	would	give	her,
who	 was	 so	 simple,	 so	 impulsive,	 only	 twenty-four,	 without	 friends	 in
England,	who	had	left	Italy	for	his	sake,	a	piece	of	bone.

The	 motor	 car	 with	 its	 blinds	 drawn	 and	 an	 air	 of	 inscrutable	 reserve
proceeded	 towards	 Piccadilly,	 still	 gazed	 at,	 still	 ruffling	 the	 faces	 on	 both
sides	of	the	street	with	the	same	dark	breath	of	veneration	whether	for	Queen,
Prince,	 or	 Prime	 Minister	 nobody	 knew.	 The	 face	 itself	 had	 been	 seen	 only
once	by	three	people	for	a	few	seconds.	Even	the	sex	was	now	in	dispute.	But
there	 could	 be	 no	 doubt	 that	 greatness	 was	 seated	 within;	 greatness	 was
passing,	 hidden,	 down	 Bond	 Street,	 removed	 only	 by	 a	 hand's-breadth	 from
ordinary	people	who	might	now,	for	the	first	and	last	time,	be	within	speaking
distance	of	the	majesty	of	England,	of	the	enduring	symbol	of	the	state	which
will	be	known	to	curious	antiquaries,	sifting	the	ruins	of	time,	when	London	is
a	grass-grown	path	and	all	those	hurrying	along	the	pavement	this	Wednesday
morning	are	but	bones	with	a	few	wedding	rings	mixed	up	in	their	dust	and	the
gold	stoppings	of	innumerable	decayed	teeth.	The	face	in	the	motor	car	will
then	be	known.

It	 is	 probably	 the	 Queen,	 thought	 Mrs.	 Dalloway,	 coming	 out	 of	 Mulberry's
with	 her	 flowers;	 the	 Queen.	 And	 for	 a	 second	 she	 wore	 a	 look	 of	 extreme
dignity	standing	by	the	flower	shop	in	the	sunlight	while	the	car	passed	at	a
foot's	 pace,	 with	 its	 blinds	 drawn.	 The	 Queen	 going	 to	 some	 hospital;	 the
Queen	opening	some	bazaar,	thought	Clarissa.

The	 crush	 was	 terrific	 for	 the	 time	 of	 day.	 Lords,	 Ascot,	 Hurlingham,	 what
was	it?	she	wondered,	for	the	street	was	blocked.	The	British	middle	classes
sitting	 sideways	 on	 the	 tops	 of	 omnibuses	 with	 parcels	 and	 umbrellas,	 yes,
even	furs	on	a	day	like	this,	were,	she	thought,	more	ridiculous,	more	unlike
anything	there	has	ever	been	than	one	could	conceive;	and	the	Queen	herself
held	up;	the	Queen	herself	unable	to	pass.	Clarissa	was	suspended	on	one	side
of	Brook	Street;	Sir	John	Buckhurst,	the	old	Judge	on	the	other,	with	the	car
between	 them	 (Sir	 John	 had	 laid	 down	 the	 law	 for	 years	 and	 liked	 a	 well-
dressed	woman)	when	the	chauffeur,	leaning	ever	so	slightly,	said	or	showed
something	 to	 the	 policeman,	 who	 saluted	 and	 raised	 his	 arm	 and	 jerked	 his
head	and	moved	the	omnibus	to	the	side	and	the	car	passed	through.	Slowly
and	very	silently	it	took	its	way.

Clarissa	 guessed;	 Clarissa	 knew	 of	 course;	 she	 had	 seen	 something	 white,
magical,	 circular,	 in	 the	 footman's	 hand,	 a	 disc	 inscribed	 with	 a	 name,--the
Queen's,	the	Prince	of	Wales's,	the	Prime	Minister's?--which,	by	force	of	its
own	 lustre,	 burnt	 its	 way	 through	 (Clarissa	 saw	 the	 car	 diminishing,
disappearing),	to	blaze	among	candelabras,	glittering	stars,	breasts	stiff	with
oak	leaves,	Hugh	Whitbread	and	all	his	colleagues,	the	gentlemen	of	England,
that	night	in	Buckingham	Palace.	And	Clarissa,	too,	gave	a	party.	She	stiffened
a	little;	so	she	would	stand	at	the	top	of	her	stairs.

The	car	had	gone,	but	it	had	left	a	slight	ripple	which	flowed	through	glove
shops	and	hat	shops	and	tailors'	shops	on	both	sides	of	Bond	Street.	For	thirty
seconds	all	heads	were	inclined	the	same	way--to	the	window.	Choosing	a	pair
of	gloves--should	they	be	to	the	elbow	or	above	it,	lemon	or	pale	grey?--ladies
stopped;	when	the	sentence	was	finished	something	had	happened.	Something
so	trifling	in	single	instances	that	no	mathematical	instrument,	though	capable
of	transmitting	shocks	in	China,	could	register	the	vibration;	yet	in	its	fulness
rather	formidable	and	in	its	common	appeal	emotional;	for	in	all	the	hat	shops
and	tailors'	shops	strangers	looked	at	each	other	and	thought	of	the	dead;	of
the	flag;	of	Empire.	In	a	public	house	in	a	back	street	a	Colonial	insulted	the
House	 of	 Windsor	 which	 led	 to	 words,	 broken	 beer	 glasses,	 and	 a	 general
shindy,	 which	 echoed	 strangely	 across	 the	 way	 in	 the	 ears	 of	 girls	 buying
white	underlinen	threaded	with	pure	white	ribbon	for	their	weddings.	For	the
surface	agitation	of	the	passing	car	as	it	sunk	grazed	something	very	profound.

Gliding	 across	 Piccadilly,	 the	 car	 turned	 down	 St.	 James's	 Street.	 Tall	 men,
men	of	robust	physique,	well-dressed	men	with	their	tail-coats	and	their	white
slips	and	their	hair	raked	back	who,	for	reasons	difficult	to	discriminate,	were
standing	in	the	bow	window	of	Brooks's	with	their	hands	behind	the	tails	of
their	coats,	looking	out,	perceived	instinctively	that	greatness	was	passing,	and
the	pale	light	of	the	immortal	presence	fell	upon	them	as	it	had	fallen	upon

Clarissa	 Dalloway.	 At	 once	 they	 stood	 even	 straighter,	 and	 removed	 their
hands,	and	seemed	ready	to	attend	their	Sovereign,	if	need	be,	to	the	cannon's
mouth,	as	their	ancestors	had	done	before	them.	The	white	busts	and	the	little
tables	in	the	background	covered	with	copies	of	the	Tatler	and	syphons	of	soda
water	seemed	to	approve;	seemed	to	indicate	the	flowing	corn	and	the	manor
houses	of	England;	and	to	return	the	frail	hum	of	the	motor	wheels	as	the	walls
of	a	whispering	gallery	return	a	single	voice	expanded	and	made	sonorous	by
the	might	of	a	whole	cathedral.	Shawled	Moll	Pratt	with	her	flowers	on	the
pavement	wished	the	dear	boy	well	(it	was	the	Prince	of	Wales	for	certain)	and
would	have	tossed	the	price	of	a	pot	of	beer--a	bunch	of	roses--into	St.	James's
Street	out	of	sheer	light-heartedness	and	contempt	of	poverty	had	she	not	seen
the	 constable's	 eye	 upon	 her,	 discouraging	 an	 old	 Irishwoman's	 loyalty.	 The
sentries	at	St.	James's	saluted;	Queen	Alexandra's	policeman	approved.

A	 small	 crowd	 meanwhile	 had	 gathered	 at	 the	 gates	 of	 Buckingham	 Palace.
Listlessly,	yet	confidently,	poor	people	all	of	them,	they	waited;	looked	at	the
Palace	itself	with	the	flag	flying;	at	Victoria,	billowing	on	her	mound,	admired
her	shelves	of	running	water,	her	geraniums;	singled	out	from	the	motor	cars
in	 the	 Mall	 first	 this	 one,	 then	 that;	 bestowed	 emotion,	 vainly,	 upon
commoners	out	for	a	drive;	recalled	their	tribute	to	keep	it	unspent	while	this
car	passed	and	that;	and	all	the	time	let	rumour	accumulate	in	their	veins	and
thrill	the	nerves	in	their	thighs	at	the	thought	of	Royalty	looking	at	them;	the
Queen	bowing;	the	Prince	saluting;	at	the	thought	of	the	heavenly	life	divinely
bestowed	upon	Kings;	of	the	equerries	and	deep	curtsies;	of	the	Queen's	old
doll's	house;	of	Princess	Mary	married	to	an	Englishman,	and	the	Prince--ah!
the	Prince!	who	took	wonderfully,	they	said,	after	old	King	Edward,	but	was
ever	 so	 much	 slimmer.	 The	 Prince	 lived	 at	 St.	 James's;	 but	 he	 might	 come
along	in	the	morning	to	visit	his	mother.

the	 housemaids,	

the	

the	 bedrooms,	

innumerable	 housemaids,	

So	 Sarah	 Bletchley	 said	 with	 her	 baby	 in	 her	 arms,	 tipping	 her	 foot	 up	 and
down	as	though	she	were	by	her	own	fender	in	Pimlico,	but	keeping	her	eyes
on	the	Mall,	while	Emily	Coates	ranged	over	the	Palace	windows	and	thought
of	
the
innumerable	 bedrooms.	 Joined	 by	 an	 elderly	 gentleman	 with	 an	 Aberdeen
terrier,	 by	 men	 without	 occupation,	 the	 crowd	 increased.	 Little	 Mr.	 Bowley,
who	 had	 rooms	 in	 the	 Albany	 and	 was	 sealed	 with	 wax	 over	 the	 deeper
sources	of	life	but	could	be	unsealed	suddenly,	inappropriately,	sentimentally,
by	 this	 sort	 of	 thing--poor	 women	 waiting	 to	 see	 the	 Queen	 go	 past--poor
women,	 nice	 little	 children,	 orphans,	 widows,	 the	 War--tut-tut--actually	 had
tears	in	his	eyes.	A	breeze	flaunting	ever	so	warmly	down	the	Mall	through	the
thin	trees,	past	the	bronze	heroes,	lifted	some	flag	flying	in	the	British	breast
of	Mr.	Bowley	and	he	raised	his	hat	as	the	car	turned	into	the	Mall	and	held	it
high	as	the	car	approached;	and	let	the	poor	mothers	of	Pimlico	press	close	to

him,	and	stood	very	upright.	The	car	came	on.

Suddenly	Mrs.	Coates	looked	up	into	the	sky.	The	sound	of	an	aeroplane	bored
ominously	 into	 the	 ears	 of	 the	 crowd.	 There	 it	 was	 coming	 over	 the	 trees,
letting	 out	 white	 smoke	 from	 behind,	 which	 curled	 and	 twisted,	 actually
writing	something!	making	letters	in	the	sky!	Every	one	looked	up.

Dropping	dead	down	the	aeroplane	soared	straight	up,	curved	in	a	loop,	raced,
sank,	rose,	and	whatever	it	did,	wherever	it	went,	out	fluttered	behind	it	a	thick
ruffled	bar	of	white	smoke	which	curled	and	wreathed	upon	the	sky	in	letters.
But	what	letters?	A	C	was	it?	an	E,	then	an	L?	Only	for	a	moment	did	they	lie
still;	then	they	moved	and	melted	and	were	rubbed	out	up	in	the	sky,	and	the
aeroplane	shot	further	away	and	again,	in	a	fresh	space	of	sky,	began	writing	a
K,	an	E,	a	Y	perhaps?

"Glaxo,"	said	Mrs.	Coates	in	a	strained,	awe-stricken	voice,	gazing	straight	up,
and	her	baby,	lying	stiff	and	white	in	her	arms,	gazed	straight	up.

"Kreemo,"	 murmured	 Mrs.	 Bletchley,	 like	 a	 sleep-walker.	 With	 his	 hat	 held
out	 perfectly	 still	 in	 his	 hand,	 Mr.	 Bowley	 gazed	 straight	 up.	 All	 down	 the
Mall	 people	 were	 standing	 and	 looking	 up	 into	 the	 sky.	 As	 they	 looked	 the
whole	world	became	perfectly	silent,	and	a	flight	of	gulls	crossed	the	sky,	first
one	gull	leading,	then	another,	and	in	this	extraordinary	silence	and	peace,	in
this	pallor,	in	this	purity,	bells	struck	eleven	times,	the	sound	fading	up	there
among	the	gulls.

The	aeroplane	turned	and	raced	and	swooped	exactly	where	it	liked,	swiftly,
freely,	like	a	skater--

"That's	an	E,"	said	Mrs.	Bletchley--or	a	dancer--

"It's	 toffee,"	 murmured	 Mr.	 Bowley--(and	 the	 car	 went	 in	 at	 the	 gates	 and
nobody	looked	at	it),	and	shutting	off	the	smoke,	away	and	away	it	rushed,	and
the	 smoke	 faded	 and	 assembled	 itself	 round	 the	 broad	 white	 shapes	 of	 the
clouds.

It	 had	 gone;	 it	 was	 behind	 the	 clouds.	 There	 was	 no	 sound.	 The	 clouds	 to
which	 the	 letters	 E,	 G,	 or	 L	 had	 attached	 themselves	 moved	 freely,	 as	 if
destined	to	cross	from	West	to	East	on	a	mission	of	the	greatest	importance
which	would	never	be	revealed,	and	yet	certainly	so	it	was--a	mission	of	the
greatest	 importance.	 Then	 suddenly,	 as	 a	 train	 comes	 out	 of	 a	 tunnel,	 the
aeroplane	rushed	out	of	the	clouds	again,	the	sound	boring	into	the	ears	of	all
people	 in	 the	 Mall,	 in	 the	 Green	 Park,	 in	 Piccadilly,	 in	 Regent	 Street,	 in
Regent's	Park,	and	the	bar	of	smoke	curved	behind	and	it	dropped	down,	and	it
soared	up	and	wrote	one	letter	after	another--but	what	word	was	it	writing?

Lucrezia	Warren	Smith,	sitting	by	her	husband's	side	on	a	seat	in	Regent's	Park
in	the	Broad	Walk,	looked	up.

"Look,	look,	Septimus!"	she	cried.	For	Dr.	Holmes	had	told	her	to	make	her
husband	(who	had	nothing	whatever	seriously	the	matter	with	him	but	was	a
little	out	of	sorts)	take	an	interest	in	things	outside	himself.

So,	 thought	 Septimus,	 looking	 up,	 they	 are	 signalling	 to	 me.	 Not	 indeed	 in
actual	 words;	 that	 is,	 he	 could	 not	 read	 the	 language	 yet;	 but	 it	 was	 plain
enough,	this	beauty,	this	exquisite	beauty,	and	tears	filled	his	eyes	as	he	looked
at	the	smoke	words	languishing	and	melting	in	the	sky	and	bestowing	upon
him	 in	 their	 inexhaustible	 charity	 and	 laughing	 goodness	 one	 shape	 after
another	of	unimaginable	beauty	and	signalling	their	intention	to	provide	him,
for	nothing,	for	ever,	for	looking	merely,	with	beauty,	more	beauty!	Tears	ran
down	his	cheeks.

It	was	toffee;	they	were	advertising	toffee,	a	nursemaid	told	Rezia.	Together
they	began	to	spell	t	.	.	.	o	.	.	.	f	.	.	.

"K	.	.	.	R	.	.	."	said	the	nursemaid,	and	Septimus	heard	her	say	"Kay	Arr"	close
to	 his	 ear,	 deeply,	 softly,	 like	 a	 mellow	 organ,	 but	 with	 a	 roughness	 in	 her
voice	like	a	grasshopper's,	which	rasped	his	spine	deliciously	and	sent	running
up	 into	 his	 brain	 waves	 of	 sound	 which,	 concussing,	 broke.	 A	 marvellous
discovery	indeed--that	the	human	voice	in	certain	atmospheric	conditions	(for
one	must	be	scientific,	above	all	scientific)	can	quicken	trees	into	life!	Happily
Rezia	 put	 her	 hand	 with	 a	 tremendous	 weight	 on	 his	 knee	 so	 that	 he	 was
weighted	 down,	 transfixed,	 or	 the	 excitement	 of	 the	 elm	 trees	 rising	 and
falling,	rising	and	falling	with	all	their	leaves	alight	and	the	colour	thinning
and	thickening	from	blue	to	the	green	of	a	hollow	wave,	like	plumes	on	horses'
heads,	 feathers	 on	 ladies',	 so	 proudly	 they	 rose	 and	 fell,	 so	 superbly,	 would
have	 sent	 him	 mad.	 But	 he	 would	 not	 go	 mad.	 He	 would	 shut	 his	 eyes;	 he
would	see	no	more.

But	they	beckoned;	leaves	were	alive;	trees	were	alive.	And	the	leaves	being
connected	by	millions	of	fibres	with	his	own	body,	there	on	the	seat,	fanned	it
up	 and	 down;	 when	 the	 branch	 stretched	 he,	 too,	 made	 that	 statement.	 The
sparrows	 fluttering,	 rising,	 and	 falling	 in	 jagged	 fountains	 were	 part	 of	 the
pattern;	 the	 white	 and	 blue,	 barred	 with	 black	 branches.	 Sounds	 made
harmonies	with	premeditation;	the	spaces	between	them	were	as	significant	as
the	sounds.	A	child	cried.	Rightly	far	away	a	horn	sounded.	All	taken	together
meant	the	birth	of	a	new	religion--

"Septimus!"	said	Rezia.	He	started	violently.	People	must	notice.

"I	am	going	to	walk	to	the	fountain	and	back,"	she	said.

For	she	could	stand	it	no	longer.	Dr.	Holmes	might	say	there	was	nothing	the
matter.	Far	rather	would	she	that	he	were	dead!	She	could	not	sit	beside	him
when	he	stared	so	and	did	not	see	her	and	made	everything	terrible;	sky	and
tree,	children	playing,	dragging	carts,	blowing	whistles,	falling	down;	all	were
terrible.	And	he	would	not	kill	himself;	and	she	could	tell	no	one.	"Septimus
has	been	working	too	hard"--that	was	all	she	could	say	to	her	own	mother.	To
love	 makes	 one	 solitary,	 she	 thought.	 She	 could	 tell	 nobody,	 not	 even
Septimus	now,	and	looking	back,	she	saw	him	sitting	in	his	shabby	overcoat
alone,	on	the	seat,	hunched	up,	staring.	And	it	was	cowardly	for	a	man	to	say
he	 would	 kill	 himself,	 but	 Septimus	 had	 fought;	 he	 was	 brave;	 he	 was	 not
Septimus	now.	She	put	on	her	lace	collar.	She	put	on	her	new	hat	and	he	never
noticed;	and	he	was	happy	without	her.	Nothing	could	make	her	happy	without
him!	Nothing!	He	was	selfish.	So	men	are.	For	he	was	not	ill.	Dr.	Holmes	said
there	was	nothing	the	matter	with	him.	She	spread	her	hand	before	her.	Look!
Her	wedding	ring	slipped--she	had	grown	so	thin.	It	was	she	who	suffered--but
she	had	nobody	to	tell.

Far	was	Italy	and	the	white	houses	and	the	room	where	her	sisters	sat	making
hats,	and	the	streets	crowded	every	evening	with	people	walking,	laughing	out
loud,	not	half	alive	like	people	here,	huddled	up	in	Bath	chairs,	looking	at	a
few	ugly	flowers	stuck	in	pots!

"For	you	should	see	the	Milan	gardens,"	she	said	aloud.	But	to	whom?

There	 was	 nobody.	 Her	 words	 faded.	 So	 a	 rocket	 fades.	 Its	 sparks,	 having
grazed	their	way	into	the	night,	surrender	to	it,	dark	descends,	pours	over	the
outlines	of	houses	and	towers;	bleak	hillsides	soften	and	fall	in.	But	though
they	are	gone,	the	night	is	full	of	them;	robbed	of	colour,	blank	of	windows,
they	exist	more	ponderously,	give	out	what	the	frank	daylight	fails	to	transmit-
-the	 trouble	 and	 suspense	 of	 things	 conglomerated	 there	 in	 the	 darkness;
huddled	together	in	the	darkness;	reft	of	the	relief	which	dawn	brings	when,
washing	the	walls	white	and	grey,	spotting	each	window-pane,	lifting	the	mist
from	the	fields,	showing	the	red-brown	cows	peacefully	grazing,	all	is	once
more	decked	out	to	the	eye;	exists	again.	I	am	alone;	I	am	alone!	she	cried,	by
the	fountain	in	Regent's	Park	(staring	at	the	Indian	and	his	cross),	as	perhaps	at
midnight,	when	all	boundaries	are	lost,	the	country	reverts	to	its	ancient	shape,
as	the	 Romans	saw	 it,	lying	 cloudy,	when	 they	 landed,	and	 the	hills	 had	no
names	and	rivers	wound	they	knew	not	where--such	was	her	darkness;	when
suddenly,	as	if	a	shelf	were	shot	forth	and	she	stood	on	it,	she	said	how	she
was	his	wife,	married	years	ago	in	Milan,	his	wife,	and	would	never,	never	tell
that	he	was	mad!	Turning,	the	shelf	fell;	down,	down	she	dropped.	For	he	was
gone,	 she	 thought--gone,	 as	 he	 threatened,	 to	 kill	 himself--to	 throw	 himself
under	a	cart!	But	no;	there	he	was;	still	sitting	alone	on	the	seat,	in	his	shabby

overcoat,	his	legs	crossed,	staring,	talking	aloud.

Men	must	not	cut	down	trees.	There	is	a	God.	(He	noted	such	revelations	on
the	backs	of	envelopes.)	Change	the	world.	No	one	kills	from	hatred.	Make	it
known	(he	wrote	it	down).	He	waited.	He	listened.	A	sparrow	perched	on	the
railing	opposite	chirped	Septimus,	Septimus,	four	or	five	times	over	and	went
on,	drawing	its	notes	out,	to	sing	freshly	and	piercingly	in	Greek	words	how
there	 is	 no	 crime	 and,	 joined	 by	 another	 sparrow,	 they	 sang	 in	 voices
prolonged	 and	 piercing	 in	 Greek	 words,	 from	 trees	 in	 the	 meadow	 of	 life
beyond	a	river	where	the	dead	walk,	how	there	is	no	death.

There	was	his	hand;	there	the	dead.	White	things	were	assembling	behind	the
railings	opposite.	But	he	dared	not	look.	Evans	was	behind	the	railings!

"What	are	you	saying?"	said	Rezia	suddenly,	sitting	down	by	him.

Interrupted	again!	She	was	always	interrupting.

Away	 from	 people--they	 must	 get	 away	 from	 people,	 he	 said	 (jumping	 up),
right	 away	 over	 there,	 where	 there	 were	 chairs	 beneath	 a	 tree	 and	 the	 long
slope	of	the	park	dipped	like	a	length	of	green	stuff	with	a	ceiling	cloth	of	blue
and	pink	smoke	high	above,	and	there	was	a	rampart	of	far	irregular	houses
hazed	in	smoke,	the	traffic	hummed	in	a	circle,	and	on	the	right,	dun-coloured
animals	 stretched	 long	 necks	 over	 the	 Zoo	 palings,	 barking,	 howling.	 There
they	sat	down	under	a	tree.

"Look,"	she	implored	him,	pointing	at	a	little	troop	of	boys	carrying	cricket
stumps,	and	one	shuffled,	spun	round	on	his	heel	and	shuffled,	as	if	he	were
acting	a	clown	at	the	music	hall.

"Look,"	she	implored	him,	for	Dr.	Holmes	had	told	her	to	make	him	notice
real	 things,	 go	 to	 a	 music	 hall,	 play	 cricket--that	 was	 the	 very	 game,	 Dr.
Holmes	said,	a	nice	out-of-door	game,	the	very	game	for	her	husband.

"Look,"	she	repeated.

Look	the	unseen	bade	him,	the	voice	which	now	communicated	with	him	who
was	 the	 greatest	 of	 mankind,	 Septimus,	 lately	 taken	 from	 life	 to	 death,	 the
Lord	who	had	come	to	renew	society,	who	lay	like	a	coverlet,	a	snow	blanket
smitten	only	by	the	sun,	for	ever	unwasted,	suffering	for	ever,	the	scapegoat,
the	eternal	sufferer,	but	he	did	not	want	it,	he	moaned,	putting	from	him	with	a
wave	of	his	hand	that	eternal	suffering,	that	eternal	loneliness.

"Look,"	she	repeated,	for	he	must	not	talk	aloud	to	himself	out	of	doors.

"Oh	 look,"	 she	 implored	 him.	 But	 what	 was	 there	 to	 look	 at?	 A	 few	 sheep.

That	was	all.

The	way	to	Regent's	Park	Tube	station--could	they	tell	her	the	way	to	Regent's
Park	 Tube	 station--Maisie	 Johnson	 wanted	 to	 know.	 She	 was	 only	 up	 from
Edinburgh	two	days	ago.

"Not	this	way--over	there!"	Rezia	exclaimed,	waving	her	aside,	lest	she	should
see	Septimus.

Both	seemed	queer,	Maisie	Johnson	thought.	Everything	seemed	very	queer.
In	 London	 for	 the	 first	 time,	 come	 to	 take	 up	 a	 post	 at	 her	 uncle's	 in
Leadenhall	Street,	and	now	walking	through	Regent's	Park	in	the	morning,	this
couple	on	the	chairs	gave	her	quite	a	turn;	the	young	woman	seeming	foreign,
the	 man	 looking	 queer;	 so	 that	 should	 she	 be	 very	 old	 she	 would	 still
remember	and	make	it	jangle	again	among	her	memories	how	she	had	walked
through	Regent's	Park	on	a	fine	summer's	morning	fifty	years	ago.	For	she	was
only	nineteen	and	had	got	her	way	at	last,	to	come	to	London;	and	now	how
queer	 it	 was,	 this	 couple	 she	 had	 asked	 the	 way	 of,	 and	 the	 girl	 started	 and
jerked	her	hand,	and	the	man--he	seemed	awfully	odd;	quarrelling,	perhaps;
parting	 for	 ever,	 perhaps;	 something	 was	 up,	 she	 knew;	 and	 now	 all	 these
people	 (for	 she	 returned	 to	 the	 Broad	 Walk),	 the	 stone	 basins,	 the	 prim
flowers,	 the	 old	 men	 and	 women,	 invalids	 most	 of	 them	 in	 Bath	 chairs--all
seemed,	 after	 Edinburgh,	 so	 queer.	 And	 Maisie	 Johnson,	 as	 she	 joined	 that
gently	 trudging,	 vaguely	 gazing,	 breeze-kissed	 company--squirrels	 perching
and	 preening,	 sparrow	 fountains	 fluttering	 for	 crumbs,	 dogs	 busy	 with	 the
railings,	busy	with	each	other,	while	the	soft	warm	air	washed	over	them	and
lent	 to	 the	 fixed	 unsurprised	 gaze	 with	 which	 they	 received	 life	 something
whimsical	and	mollified--Maisie	Johnson	positively	felt	she	must	cry	Oh!	(for
that	young	man	on	the	seat	had	given	her	quite	a	turn.	Something	was	up,	she
knew.)

Horror!	horror!	she	wanted	to	cry.	(She	had	left	her	people;	they	had	warned
her	what	would	happen.)

Why	 hadn't	 she	 stayed	 at	 home?	 she	 cried,	 twisting	 the	 knob	 of	 the	 iron
railing.

That	girl,	thought	Mrs.	Dempster	(who	saved	crusts	for	the	squirrels	and	often
ate	her	lunch	in	Regent's	Park),	don't	know	a	thing	yet;	and	really	it	seemed	to
her	 better	 to	 be	 a	 little	 stout,	 a	 little	 slack,	 a	 little	 moderate	 in	 one's
expectations.	Percy	drank.	Well,	better	to	have	a	son,	thought	Mrs.	Dempster.
She	 had	 had	 a	 hard	 time	 of	 it,	 and	 couldn't	 help	 smiling	 at	 a	 girl	 like	 that.
You'll	 get	 married,	 for	 you're	 pretty	 enough,	 thought	 Mrs.	 Dempster.	 Get
married,	she	thought,	and	then	you'll	know.	Oh,	the	cooks,	and	so	on.	Every

man	has	his	ways.	But	whether	I'd	have	chosen	quite	like	that	if	I	could	have
known,	thought	Mrs.	Dempster,	and	could	not	help	wishing	to	whisper	a	word
to	Maisie	Johnson;	to	feel	on	the	creased	pouch	of	her	worn	old	face	the	kiss
of	pity.	For	it's	been	a	hard	life,	thought	Mrs.	Dempster.	What	hadn't	she	given
to	it?	Roses;	figure;	her	feet	too.	(She	drew	the	knobbed	lumps	beneath	her
skirt.)

Roses,	she	thought	sardonically.	All	trash,	m'dear.	For	really,	what	with	eating,
drinking,	and	mating,	the	bad	days	and	good,	life	had	been	no	mere	matter	of
roses,	and	 what	was	 more,	let	 me	tell	 you,	 Carrie	Dempster	 had	no	 wish	to
change	 her	 lot	 with	 any	 woman's	 in	 Kentish	 Town!	 But,	 she	 implored,	 pity.
Pity,	for	the	loss	of	roses.	Pity	she	asked	of	Maisie	Johnson,	standing	by	the
hyacinth	beds.

Ah,	 but	 that	 aeroplane!	 Hadn't	 Mrs.	 Dempster	 always	 longed	 to	 see	 foreign
parts?	She	had	a	nephew,	a	missionary.	It	soared	and	shot.	She	always	went	on
the	 sea	 at	 Margate,	 not	 out	 o'	 sight	 of	 land,	 but	 she	 had	 no	 patience	 with
women	who	were	afraid	of	water.	It	swept	and	fell.	Her	stomach	was	in	her
mouth.	 Up	 again.	 There's	 a	 fine	 young	 feller	 aboard	 of	 it,	 Mrs.	 Dempster
wagered,	 and	 away	 and	 away	 it	 went,	 fast	 and	 fading,	 away	 and	 away	 the
aeroplane	shot;	soaring	over	Greenwich	and	all	the	masts;	over	the	little	island
of	grey	churches,	St.	Paul's	and	the	rest	till,	on	either	side	of	London,	fields
spread	out	and	dark	brown	woods	where	adventurous	thrushes	hopping	boldly,
glancing	quickly,	snatched	the	snail	and	tapped	him	on	a	stone,	once,	twice,
thrice.

Away	and	away	the	aeroplane	shot,	till	it	was	nothing	but	a	bright	spark;	an
aspiration;	a	concentration;	a	symbol	(so	it	seemed	to	Mr.	Bentley,	vigorously
rolling	 his	 strip	 of	 turf	 at	 Greenwich)	 of	 man's	 soul;	 of	 his	 determination,
thought	Mr.	Bentley,	sweeping	round	the	cedar	tree,	to	get	outside	his	body,
beyond	 his	 house,	 by	 means	 of	 thought,	 Einstein,	 speculation,	 mathematics,
the	Mendelian	theory--away	the	aeroplane	shot.

Then,	while	a	seedy-looking	nondescript	man	carrying	a	leather	bag	stood	on
the	steps	of	St.	Paul's	Cathedral,	and	hesitated,	for	within	was	what	balm,	how
great	a	welcome,	how	many	tombs	with	banners	waving	over	them,	tokens	of
victories	 not	 over	 armies,	 but	 over,	 he	 thought,	 that	 plaguy	 spirit	 of	 truth
seeking	which	leaves	me	at	present	without	a	situation,	and	more	than	that,	the
cathedral	offers	company,	he	thought,	invites	you	to	membership	of	a	society;
great	men	belong	to	it;	martyrs	have	died	for	it;	why	not	enter	in,	he	thought,
put	this	leather	bag	stuffed	with	pamphlets	before	an	altar,	a	cross,	the	symbol
of	something	which	has	soared	beyond	seeking	and	questing	and	knocking	of
words	together	and	has	become	all	spirit,	disembodied,	ghostly--why	not	enter
in?	 he	 thought	 and	 while	 he	 hesitated	 out	 flew	 the	 aeroplane	 over	 Ludgate

Circus.

It	 was	 strange;	 it	 was	 still.	 Not	 a	 sound	 was	 to	 be	 heard	 above	 the	 traffic.
Unguided	it	seemed;	sped	of	its	own	free	will.	And	now,	curving	up	and	up,
straight	 up,	 like	 something	 mounting	 in	 ecstasy,	 in	 pure	 delight,	 out	 from
behind	poured	white	smoke	looping,	writing	a	T,	an	O,	an	F.

	

"What	are	they	looking	at?"	said	Clarissa	Dalloway	to	the	maid	who	opened
her	door.

The	hall	of	the	house	was	cool	as	a	vault.	Mrs.	Dalloway	raised	her	hand	to
her	eyes,	and,	as	the	maid	shut	the	door	to,	and	she	heard	the	swish	of	Lucy's
skirts,	she	felt	like	a	nun	who	has	left	the	world	and	feels	fold	round	her	the
familiar	 veils	 and	 the	 response	 to	 old	 devotions.	 The	 cook	 whistled	 in	 the
kitchen.	She	heard	the	click	of	the	typewriter.	It	was	her	life,	and,	bending	her
head	 over	 the	 hall	 table,	 she	 bowed	 beneath	 the	 influence,	 felt	 blessed	 and
purified,	saying	to	herself,	as	she	took	the	pad	with	the	telephone	message	on
it,	how	moments	like	this	are	buds	on	the	tree	of	life,	flowers	of	darkness	they
are,	she	thought	(as	if	some	lovely	rose	had	blossomed	for	her	eyes	only);	not
for	a	moment	did	she	believe	in	God;	but	all	the	more,	she	thought,	taking	up
the	 pad,	 must	 one	 repay	 in	 daily	 life	 to	 servants,	 yes,	 to	 dogs	 and	 canaries,
above	 all	 to	 Richard	 her	 husband,	 who	 was	 the	 foundation	 of	 it--of	 the	 gay
sounds,	of	the	green	lights,	of	the	cook	even	whistling,	for	Mrs.	Walker	was
Irish	and	whistled	all	day	long--one	must	pay	back	from	this	secret	deposit	of
exquisite	 moments,	 she	 thought,	 lifting	 the	 pad,	 while	 Lucy	 stood	 by	 her,
trying	to	explain	how

"Mr.	Dalloway,	ma'am"--

Clarissa	 read	 on	 the	 telephone	 pad,	 "Lady	 Bruton	 wishes	 to	 know	 if	 Mr.
Dalloway	will	lunch	with	her	to-day."

"Mr.	Dalloway,	ma'am,	told	me	to	tell	you	he	would	be	lunching	out."

"Dear!"	said	Clarissa,	and	Lucy	shared	as	she	meant	her	to	her	disappointment
(but	not	the	pang);	felt	the	concord	between	them;	took	the	hint;	thought	how
the	gentry	love;	gilded	her	own	future	with	calm;	and,	taking	Mrs.	Dalloway's
parasol,	handled	it	like	a	sacred	weapon	which	a	Goddess,	having	acquitted
herself	honourably	in	the	field	of	battle,	sheds,	and	placed	it	in	the	umbrella
stand.

"Fear	no	more,"	said	Clarissa.	Fear	no	more	the	heat	o'	the	sun;	for	the	shock
of	 Lady	 Bruton	 asking	 Richard	 to	 lunch	 without	 her	 made	 the	 moment	 in

which	 she	 had	 stood	 shiver,	 as	 a	 plant	 on	 the	 river-bed	 feels	 the	 shock	 of	 a
passing	oar	and	shivers:	so	she	rocked:	so	she	shivered.

Millicent	Bruton,	whose	lunch	parties	were	said	to	be	extraordinarily	amusing,
had	not	asked	her.	No	vulgar	jealousy	could	separate	her	from	Richard.	But
she	feared	time	itself,	and	read	on	Lady	Bruton's	face,	as	if	it	had	been	a	dial
cut	in	impassive	stone,	the	dwindling	of	life;	how	year	by	year	her	share	was
sliced;	 how	 little	 the	 margin	 that	 remained	 was	 capable	 any	 longer	 of
stretching,	of	absorbing,	as	in	the	youthful	years,	the	colours,	salts,	tones	of
existence,	so	that	she	filled	the	room	she	entered,	and	felt	often	as	she	stood
hesitating	 one	 moment	 on	 the	 threshold	 of	 her	 drawing-room,	 an	 exquisite
suspense,	such	as	might	stay	a	diver	before	plunging	while	the	sea	darkens	and
brightens	beneath	him,	and	the	waves	which	threaten	to	break,	but	only	gently
split	their	surface,	roll	and	conceal	and	encrust	as	they	just	turn	over	the	weeds
with	pearl.

She	put	the	pad	on	the	hall	table.	She	began	to	go	slowly	upstairs,	with	her
hand	on	the	bannisters,	as	if	she	had	left	a	party,	where	now	this	friend	now
that	had	flashed	back	her	face,	her	voice;	had	shut	the	door	and	gone	out	and
stood	 alone,	 a	 single	 figure	 against	 the	 appalling	 night,	 or	 rather,	 to	 be
accurate,	 against	 the	 stare	 of	 this	 matter-of-fact	 June	 morning;	 soft	 with	 the
glow	of	rose	petals	for	some,	she	knew,	and	felt	it,	as	she	paused	by	the	open
staircase	 window	 which	 let	 in	 blinds	 flapping,	 dogs	 barking,	 let	 in,	 she
thought,	 feeling	 herself	 suddenly	 shrivelled,	 aged,	 breastless,	 the	 grinding,
blowing,	flowering	of	the	day,	out	of	doors,	out	of	the	window,	out	of	her	body
and	brain	which	now	failed,	since	Lady	Bruton,	whose	lunch	parties	were	said
to	be	extraordinarily	amusing,	had	not	asked	her.

Like	 a	 nun	 withdrawing,	 or	 a	 child	 exploring	 a	 tower,	 she	 went	 upstairs,
paused	at	the	window,	came	to	the	bathroom.	There	was	the	green	linoleum
and	 a	 tap	 dripping.	 There	 was	 an	 emptiness	 about	 the	 heart	 of	 life;	 an	 attic
room.	Women	must	put	off	their	rich	apparel.	At	midday	they	must	disrobe.
She	pierced	the	pincushion	and	laid	her	feathered	yellow	hat	on	the	bed.	The
sheets	 were	 clean,	 tight	 stretched	 in	 a	 broad	 white	 band	 from	 side	 to	 side.
Narrower	and	narrower	would	her	bed	be.	The	candle	was	half	burnt	down	and
she	had	read	deep	in	Baron	Marbot's	Memoirs.	She	had	read	late	at	night	of
the	retreat	from	Moscow.	For	the	House	sat	so	long	that	Richard	insisted,	after
her	illness,	that	she	must	sleep	undisturbed.	And	really	she	preferred	to	read	of
the	 retreat	 from	 Moscow.	 He	 knew	 it.	 So	 the	 room	 was	 an	 attic;	 the	 bed
narrow;	 and	 lying	 there	 reading,	 for	 she	 slept	 badly,	 she	 could	 not	 dispel	 a
virginity	preserved	through	childbirth	which	clung	to	her	like	a	sheet.	Lovely
in	girlhood,	suddenly	there	came	a	moment--for	example	on	the	river	beneath
the	 woods	 at	 Clieveden--when,	 through	 some	 contraction	 of	 this	 cold	 spirit,

she	 had	 failed	 him.	 And	 then	 at	 Constantinople,	 and	 again	 and	 again.	 She
could	 see	 what	 she	 lacked.	 It	 was	 not	 beauty;	 it	 was	 not	 mind.	 It	 was
something	central	which	permeated;	something	warm	which	broke	up	surfaces
and	 rippled	 the	 cold	 contact	 of	 man	 and	 woman,	 or	 of	 women	 together.
For	that	 she	 could	 dimly	 perceive.	 She	 resented	 it,	 had	 a	 scruple	 picked	 up
Heaven	knows	where,	or,	as	she	felt,	sent	by	Nature	(who	is	invariably	wise);
yet	she	could	not	resist	sometimes	yielding	to	the	charm	of	a	woman,	not	a
girl,	of	a	woman	confessing,	as	to	her	they	often	did,	some	scrape,	some	folly.
And	 whether	 it	 was	 pity,	 or	 their	 beauty,	 or	 that	 she	 was	 older,	 or	 some
accident--like	a	faint	scent,	or	a	violin	next	door	(so	strange	is	the	power	of
sounds	at	certain	moments),	she	did	undoubtedly	then	feel	what	men	felt.	Only
for	 a	 moment;	 but	 it	 was	 enough.	 It	 was	 a	 sudden	 revelation,	 a	 tinge	 like	 a
blush	 which	 one	 tried	 to	 check	 and	 then,	 as	 it	 spread,	 one	 yielded	 to	 its
expansion,	 and	 rushed	 to	 the	 farthest	 verge	 and	 there	 quivered	 and	 felt	 the
world	come	closer,	swollen	with	some	astonishing	significance,	some	pressure
of	 rapture,	 which	 split	 its	 thin	 skin	 and	 gushed	 and	 poured	 with	 an
extraordinary	alleviation	over	the	cracks	and	sores!	Then,	for	that	moment,	she
had	 seen	 an	 illumination;	 a	 match	 burning	 in	 a	 crocus;	 an	 inner	 meaning
almost	expressed.	But	the	close	withdrew;	the	hard	softened.	It	was	over--the
moment.	 Against	 such	 moments	 (with	 women	 too)	 there	 contrasted	 (as	 she
laid	her	hat	down)	the	bed	and	Baron	Marbot	and	the	candle	half-burnt.	Lying
awake,	 the	 floor	 creaked;	 the	 lit	 house	 was	 suddenly	 darkened,	 and	 if	 she
raised	her	head	she	could	just	hear	the	click	of	the	handle	released	as	gently	as
possible	by	Richard,	who	slipped	upstairs	in	his	socks	and	then,	as	often	as
not,	dropped	his	hot-water	bottle	and	swore!	How	she	laughed!

But	this	question	of	love	(she	thought,	putting	her	coat	away),	this	falling	in
love	 with	 women.	 Take	 Sally	 Seton;	 her	 relation	 in	 the	 old	 days	 with	 Sally
Seton.	Had	not	that,	after	all,	been	love?

She	sat	on	the	floor--that	was	her	first	impression	of	Sally--she	sat	on	the	floor
with	 her	 arms	 round	 her	 knees,	 smoking	 a	 cigarette.	 Where	 could	 it	 have
been?	The	Mannings?	The	Kinloch-Jones's?	At	some	party	(where,	she	could
not	be	certain),	for	she	had	a	distinct	recollection	of	saying	to	the	man	she	was
with,	"Who	is	that?"	And	he	had	told	her,	and	said	that	Sally's	parents	did	not
get	on	(how	that	shocked	her--that	one's	parents	should	quarrel!).	But	all	that
evening	she	could	not	take	her	eyes	off	Sally.	It	was	an	extraordinary	beauty	of
the	kind	she	most	admired,	dark,	large-eyed,	with	that	quality	which,	since	she
hadn't	got	it	herself,	she	always	envied--a	sort	of	abandonment,	as	if	she	could
say	 anything,	 do	 anything;	 a	 quality	 much	 commoner	 in	 foreigners	 than	 in
Englishwomen.	 Sally	 always	 said	 she	 had	 French	 blood	 in	 her	 veins,	 an
ancestor	had	been	with	Marie	Antoinette,	had	his	head	cut	off,	left	a	ruby	ring.
Perhaps	 that	 summer	 she	 came	 to	 stay	 at	 Bourton,	 walking	 in	 quite

unexpectedly	 without	 a	 penny	 in	 her	 pocket,	 one	 night	 after	 dinner,	 and
upsetting	poor	Aunt	Helena	to	such	an	extent	that	she	never	forgave	her.	There
had	been	some	quarrel	at	home.	She	literally	hadn't	a	penny	that	night	when
she	came	to	them--had	pawned	a	brooch	to	come	down.	She	had	rushed	off	in
a	passion.	They	sat	up	till	all	hours	of	the	night	talking.	Sally	it	was	who	made
her	feel,	for	the	first	time,	how	sheltered	the	life	at	Bourton	was.	She	knew
nothing	about	sex--nothing	about	social	problems.	She	had	once	seen	an	old
man	who	had	dropped	dead	in	a	field--she	had	seen	cows	just	after	their	calves
were	born.	But	Aunt	Helena	never	liked	discussion	of	anything	(when	Sally
gave	her	William	Morris,	it	had	to	be	wrapped	in	brown	paper).	There	they	sat,
hour	after	hour,	talking	in	her	bedroom	at	the	top	of	the	house,	talking	about
life,	 how	 they	 were	 to	 reform	 the	 world.	 They	 meant	 to	 found	 a	 society	 to
abolish	private	property,	and	actually	had	a	letter	written,	though	not	sent	out.
The	ideas	were	Sally's,	of	course--but	very	soon	she	was	just	as	excited--read
Plato	in	bed	before	breakfast;	read	Morris;	read	Shelley	by	the	hour.

Sally's	power	was	amazing,	her	gift,	her	personality.	There	was	her	way	with
flowers,	for	instance.	At	Bourton	they	always	had	stiff	little	vases	all	the	way
down	the	table.	Sally	went	out,	picked	hollyhocks,	dahlias--all	sorts	of	flowers
that	had	never	been	seen	together--cut	their	heads	off,	and	made	them	swim	on
the	top	of	water	in	bowls.	The	effect	was	extraordinary--coming	in	to	dinner	in
the	 sunset.	 (Of	 course	 Aunt	 Helena	 thought	 it	 wicked	 to	 treat	 flowers	 like
that.)	Then	she	forgot	her	sponge,	and	ran	along	the	passage	naked.	That	grim
old	 housemaid,	 Ellen	 Atkins,	 went	 about	 grumbling--"Suppose	 any	 of	 the
gentlemen	had	seen?"	Indeed	she	did	shock	people.	She	was	untidy,	Papa	said.

The	strange	thing,	on	looking	back,	was	the	purity,	the	integrity,	of	her	feeling
for	 Sally.	 It	 was	 not	 like	 one's	 feeling	 for	 a	 man.	 It	 was	 completely
disinterested,	 and	 besides,	 it	 had	 a	 quality	 which	 could	 only	 exist	 between
women,	between	women	just	grown	up.	It	was	protective,	on	her	side;	sprang
from	a	sense	of	being	in	league	together,	a	presentiment	of	something	that	was
bound	to	part	them	(they	spoke	of	marriage	always	as	a	catastrophe),	which
led	to	this	chivalry,	this	protective	feeling	which	was	much	more	on	her	side
than	 Sally's.	 For	 in	 those	 days	 she	 was	 completely	 reckless;	 did	 the	 most
idiotic	 things	 out	 of	 bravado;	 bicycled	 round	 the	 parapet	 on	 the	 terrace;
smoked	 cigars.	 Absurd,	 she	 was--very	 absurd.	 But	
the	 charm	 was
overpowering,	 to	 her	 at	 least,	 so	 that	 she	 could	 remember	 standing	 in	 her
bedroom	at	the	top	of	the	house	holding	the	hot-water	can	in	her	hands	and
saying	aloud,	"She	is	beneath	this	roof.	.	.	.	She	is	beneath	this	roof!"

No,	the	words	meant	absolutely	nothing	to	her	now.	She	could	not	even	get	an
echo	of	her	old	emotion.	But	she	could	remember	going	cold	with	excitement,
and	doing	her	hair	in	a	kind	of	ecstasy	(now	the	old	feeling	began	to	come

back	to	her,	as	she	took	out	her	hairpins,	laid	them	on	the	dressing-table,	began
to	do	her	hair),	with	the	rooks	flaunting	up	and	down	in	the	pink	evening	light,
and	dressing,	and	going	downstairs,	and	feeling	as	she	crossed	the	hall	"if	it
were	now	to	die	'twere	now	to	be	most	happy."	That	was	her	feeling--Othello's
feeling,	and	she	felt	it,	she	was	convinced,	as	strongly	as	Shakespeare	meant
Othello	to	feel	it,	all	because	she	was	coming	down	to	dinner	in	a	white	frock
to	meet	Sally	Seton!

She	 was	 wearing	 pink	 gauze--was	 that	 possible?	 She	 seemed,	 anyhow,	 all
light,	glowing,	like	some	bird	or	air	ball	that	has	flown	in,	attached	itself	for	a
moment	to	a	bramble.	But	nothing	is	so	strange	when	one	is	in	love	(and	what
was	this	except	being	in	love?)	as	the	complete	indifference	of	other	people.
Aunt	Helena	just	wandered	off	after	dinner;	Papa	read	the	paper.	Peter	Walsh
might	 have	 been	 there,	 and	 old	 Miss	 Cummings;	 Joseph	 Breitkopf	 certainly
was,	 for	 he	 came	 every	 summer,	 poor	 old	 man,	 for	 weeks	 and	 weeks,	 and
pretended	 to	 read	 German	 with	 her,	 but	 really	 played	 the	 piano	 and	 sang
Brahms	without	any	voice.

All	this	was	only	a	background	for	Sally.	She	stood	by	the	fireplace	talking,	in
that	 beautiful	 voice	 which	 made	 everything	 she	 said	 sound	 like	 a	 caress,	 to
Papa,	who	had	begun	to	be	attracted	rather	against	his	will	(he	never	got	over
lending	 her	 one	 of	 his	 books	 and	 finding	 it	 soaked	 on	 the	 terrace),	 when
suddenly	she	said,	"What	a	shame	to	sit	indoors!"	and	they	all	went	out	on	to
the	terrace	and	walked	up	and	down.	Peter	Walsh	and	Joseph	Breitkopf	went
on	 about	 Wagner.	 She	 and	 Sally	 fell	 a	 little	 behind.	 Then	 came	 the	 most
exquisite	moment	of	her	whole	life	passing	a	stone	urn	with	flowers	in	it.	Sally
stopped;	picked	a	flower;	kissed	her	on	the	lips.	The	whole	world	might	have
turned	upside	down!	The	others	disappeared;	there	she	was	alone	with	Sally.
And	she	felt	that	she	had	been	given	a	present,	wrapped	up,	and	told	just	to
keep	it,	not	to	look	at	it--a	diamond,	something	infinitely	precious,	wrapped
up,	which,	as	they	walked	(up	and	down,	up	and	down),	she	uncovered,	or	the
radiance	burnt	through,	the	revelation,	the	religious	feeling!--when	old	Joseph
and	Peter	faced	them:

"Star-gazing?"	said	Peter.

It	 was	 like	 running	 one's	 face	 against	 a	 granite	 wall	 in	 the	 darkness!	 It	 was
shocking;	it	was	horrible!

Not	for	herself.	She	felt	only	how	Sally	was	being	mauled	already,	maltreated;
she	 felt	 his	 hostility;	 his	 jealousy;	 his	 determination	 to	 break	 into	 their
companionship.	 All	 this	 she	 saw	 as	 one	 sees	 a	 landscape	 in	 a	 flash	 of
lightning--and	Sally	(never	had	she	admired	her	so	much!)	gallantly	taking	her
way	unvanquished.	She	laughed.	She	made	old	Joseph	tell	her	the	names	of

the	stars,	which	he	liked	doing	very	seriously.	She	stood	there:	she	listened.
She	heard	the	names	of	the	stars.

"Oh	 this	 horror!"	 she	 said	 to	 herself,	 as	 if	 she	 had	 known	 all	 along	 that
something	would	interrupt,	would	embitter	her	moment	of	happiness.

Yet,	after	all,	how	much	she	owed	to	him	later.	Always	when	she	thought	of
him	 she	 thought	 of	 their	 quarrels	 for	 some	 reason--because	 she	 wanted	 his
good	 opinion	 so	 much,	 perhaps.	 She	 owed	 him	 words:	 "sentimental,"
"civilised";	they	started	up	every	day	of	her	life	as	if	he	guarded	her.	A	book
was	 sentimental;	 an	 attitude	 to	 life	 sentimental.	 "Sentimental,"	 perhaps	 she
was	to	be	thinking	of	the	past.	What	would	he	think,	she	wondered,	when	he
came	back?

That	she	had	grown	older?	Would	he	say	that,	or	would	she	see	him	thinking
when	he	came	back,	that	she	had	grown	older?	It	was	true.	Since	her	illness
she	had	turned	almost	white.

Laying	 her	 brooch	 on	 the	 table,	 she	 had	 a	 sudden	 spasm,	 as	 if,	 while	 she
mused,	the	icy	claws	had	had	the	chance	to	fix	in	her.	She	was	not	old	yet.	She
had	just	broken	into	her	fifty-second	year.	Months	and	months	of	it	were	still
untouched.	June,	July,	August!	Each	still	remained	almost	whole,	and,	as	if	to
catch	the	falling	drop,	Clarissa	(crossing	to	the	dressing-table)	plunged	into	the
very	 heart	 of	 the	 moment,	 transfixed	 it,	 there--the	 moment	 of	 this	 June
morning	on	which	was	the	pressure	of	all	the	other	mornings,	seeing	the	glass,
the	dressing-table,	and	all	the	bottles	afresh,	collecting	the	whole	of	her	at	one
point	(as	she	looked	into	the	glass),	seeing	the	delicate	pink	face	of	the	woman
who	was	that	very	night	to	give	a	party;	of	Clarissa	Dalloway;	of	herself.

How	 many	 million	 times	 she	 had	 seen	 her	 face,	 and	 always	 with	 the	 same
imperceptible	contraction!	She	pursed	her	lips	when	she	looked	in	the	glass.	It
was	to	give	her	face	point.	That	was	her	self--pointed;	dartlike;	definite.	That
was	her	self	when	some	effort,	some	call	on	her	to	be	her	self,	drew	the	parts
together,	she	alone	knew	how	different,	how	incompatible	and	composed	so
for	the	world	only	into	one	centre,	one	diamond,	one	woman	who	sat	in	her
drawing-room	 and	 made	 a	 meeting-point,	 a	 radiancy	 no	 doubt	 in	 some	 dull
lives,	 a	 refuge	 for	 the	 lonely	 to	 come	 to,	 perhaps;	 she	 had	 helped	 young
people,	 who	 were	 grateful	 to	 her;	 had	 tried	 to	 be	 the	 same	 always,	 never
showing	 a	 sign	 of	 all	 the	 other	 sides	 of	 her--faults,	 jealousies,	 vanities,
suspicions,	 like	 this	 of	 Lady	 Bruton	 not	 asking	 her	 to	 lunch;	 which,	 she
thought	(combing	her	hair	finally),	is	utterly	base!	Now,	where	was	her	dress?

Her	evening	dresses	hung	in	the	cupboard.	Clarissa,	plunging	her	hand	into	the
softness,	gently	detached	the	green	dress	and	carried	it	to	the	window.	She	had

torn	it.	Some	one	had	trod	on	the	skirt.	She	had	felt	it	give	at	the	Embassy
party	at	the	top	among	the	folds.	By	artificial	light	the	green	shone,	but	lost	its
colour	now	in	the	sun.	She	would	mend	it.	Her	maids	had	too	much	to	do.	She
would	wear	it	to-night.	She	would	take	her	silks,	her	scissors,	her--what	was
it?--her	 thimble,	 of	 course,	 down	 into	 the	 drawing-room,	 for	 she	 must	 also
write,	and	see	that	things	generally	were	more	or	less	in	order.

Strange,	 she	 thought,	 pausing	 on	 the	 landing,	 and	 assembling	 that	 diamond
shape,	that	single	person,	strange	how	a	mistress	knows	the	very	moment,	the
very	temper	of	her	house!	Faint	sounds	rose	in	spirals	up	the	well	of	the	stairs;
the	 swish	 of	 a	 mop;	 tapping;	 knocking;	 a	 loudness	 when	 the	 front	 door
opened;	a	voice	repeating	a	message	in	the	basement;	the	chink	of	silver	on	a
tray;	clean	silver	for	the	party.	All	was	for	the	party.

(And	Lucy,	coming	into	the	drawing-room	with	her	tray	held	out,	put	the	giant
candlesticks	 on	 the	 mantelpiece,	 the	 silver	 casket	 in	 the	 middle,	 turned	 the
crystal	dolphin	towards	the	clock.	They	would	come;	they	would	stand;	they
would	talk	in	the	mincing	tones	which	she	could	imitate,	ladies	and	gentlemen.
Of	all,	her	mistress	was	loveliest--mistress	of	silver,	of	linen,	of	china,	for	the
sun,	the	silver,	doors	off	their	hinges,	Rumpelmayer's	men,	gave	her	a	sense,
as	she	laid	the	paper-knife	on	the	inlaid	table,	of	something	achieved.	Behold!
Behold!	she	said,	speaking	to	her	old	friends	in	the	baker's	shop,	where	she
had	 first	 seen	 service	 at	 Caterham,	 prying	 into	 the	 glass.	 She	 was	 Lady
Angela,	attending	Princess	Mary,	when	in	came	Mrs.	Dalloway.)

"Oh	Lucy,"	she	said,	"the	silver	does	look	nice!"

"And	 how,"	 she	 said,	 turning	 the	 crystal	 dolphin	 to	 stand	 straight,	 "how	 did
you	enjoy	the	play	last	night?"	"Oh,	they	had	to	go	before	the	end!"	she	said.
"They	had	to	be	back	at	ten!"	she	said.	"So	they	don't	know	what	happened,"
she	said.	"That	does	seem	hard	luck,"	she	said	(for	her	servants	stayed	later,	if
they	 asked	 her).	 "That	 does	 seem	 rather	 a	 shame,"	 she	 said,	 taking	 the	 old
bald-looking	cushion	in	the	middle	of	the	sofa	and	putting	it	in	Lucy's	arms,
and	giving	her	a	little	push,	and	crying:

"Take	it	away!	Give	it	to	Mrs.	Walker	with	my	compliments!	Take	it	away!"
she	cried.

And	Lucy	stopped	at	the	drawing-room	door,	holding	the	cushion,	and	said,
very	shyly,	turning	a	little	pink,	Couldn't	she	help	to	mend	that	dress?

But,	said	Mrs.	Dalloway,	she	had	enough	on	her	hands	already,	quite	enough
of	her	own	to	do	without	that.

"But,	 thank	 you,	 Lucy,	 oh,	 thank	 you,"	 said	 Mrs.	 Dalloway,	 and	 thank	 you,

thank	you,	she	went	on	saying	(sitting	down	on	the	sofa	with	her	dress	over
her	knees,	her	scissors,	her	silks),	thank	you,	thank	you,	she	went	on	saying	in
gratitude	to	her	servants	generally	for	helping	her	to	be	like	this,	to	be	what
she	 wanted,	 gentle,	 generous-hearted.	 Her	 servants	 liked	 her.	 And	 then	 this
dress	 of	 hers--where	 was	 the	 tear?	 and	 now	 her	 needle	 to	 be	 threaded.	 This
was	 a	 favourite	 dress,	 one	 of	 Sally	 Parker's,	 the	 last	 almost	 she	 ever	 made,
alas,	for	Sally	had	now	retired,	living	at	Ealing,	and	if	ever	I	have	a	moment,
thought	Clarissa	(but	never	would	she	have	a	moment	any	more),	I	shall	go
and	see	her	at	Ealing.	For	she	was	a	character,	thought	Clarissa,	a	real	artist.
She	thought	of	little	out-of-the-way	things;	yet	her	dresses	were	never	queer.
You	could	wear	them	at	Hatfield;	at	Buckingham	Palace.	She	had	worn	them
at	Hatfield;	at	Buckingham	Palace.

Quiet	 descended	 on	 her,	 calm,	 content,	 as	 her	 needle,	 drawing	 the	 silk
smoothly	to	its	gentle	pause,	collected	the	green	folds	together	and	attached
them,	 very	 lightly,	 to	 the	 belt.	 So	 on	 a	 summer's	 day	 waves	 collect,
overbalance,	and	fall;	collect	and	fall;	and	the	whole	world	seems	to	be	saying
"that	is	all"	more	and	more	ponderously,	until	even	the	heart	in	the	body	which
lies	in	the	sun	on	the	beach	says	too,	That	is	all.	Fear	no	more,	says	the	heart.
Fear	no	more,	says	the	heart,	committing	its	burden	to	some	sea,	which	sighs
collectively	 for	 all	 sorrows,	 and	 renews,	 begins,	 collects,	 lets	 fall.	 And	 the
body	alone	listens	to	the	passing	bee;	the	wave	breaking;	the	dog	barking,	far
away	barking	and	barking.

"Heavens,	 the	 front-door	 bell!"	 exclaimed	 Clarissa,	 staying	 her	 needle.
Roused,	she	listened.

"Mrs.	Dalloway	will	see	me,"	said	the	elderly	man	in	the	hall.	"Oh	yes,	she
will	see	me,"	he	repeated,	putting	Lucy	aside	very	benevolently,	and	running
upstairs	ever	so	quickly.	"Yes,	yes,	yes,"	he	muttered	as	he	ran	upstairs.	"She
will	see	me.	After	five	years	in	India,	Clarissa	will	see	me."

"Who	can--what	can,"	asked	Mrs.	Dalloway	(thinking	it	was	outrageous	to	be
interrupted	 at	 eleven	 o'clock	 on	 the	 morning	 of	 the	 day	 she	 was	 giving	 a
party),	hearing	a	step	on	the	stairs.	She	heard	a	hand	upon	the	door.	She	made
to	hide	her	dress,	like	a	virgin	protecting	chastity,	respecting	privacy.	Now	the
brass	knob	slipped.	Now	the	door	opened,	and	in	came--for	a	single	second
she	could	not	remember	what	he	was	called!	so	surprised	she	was	to	see	him,
so	 glad,	 so	 shy,	 so	 utterly	 taken	 aback	 to	 have	 Peter	 Walsh	 come	 to	 her
unexpectedly	in	the	morning!	(She	had	not	read	his	letter.)

"And	how	are	you?"	said	Peter	Walsh,	positively	trembling;	taking	both	her
hands;	kissing	both	her	hands.	She's	grown	older,	he	thought,	sitting	down.	I
shan't	 tell	 her	 anything	 about	 it,	 he	 thought,	 for	 she's	 grown	 older.	 She's

looking	at	me,	he	thought,	a	sudden	embarrassment	coming	over	him,	though
he	had	kissed	her	hands.	Putting	his	hand	into	his	pocket,	he	took	out	a	large
pocket-knife	and	half	opened	the	blade.

Exactly	the	same,	thought	Clarissa;	the	same	queer	look;	the	same	check	suit;
a	 little	 out	 of	 the	 straight	 his	 face	 is,	 a	 little	 thinner,	 dryer,	 perhaps,	 but	 he
looks	awfully	well,	and	just	the	same.

"How	heavenly	it	is	to	see	you	again!"	she	exclaimed.	He	had	his	knife	out.
That's	so	like	him,	she	thought.

He	had	only	reached	town	last	night,	he	said;	would	have	to	go	down	into	the
country	 at	 once;	 and	 how	 was	 everything,	 how	 was	 everybody--Richard?
Elizabeth?

"And	what's	all	this?"	he	said,	tilting	his	pen-knife	towards	her	green	dress.

He's	very	well	dressed,	thought	Clarissa;	yet	he	always	criticises	me.

Here	she	is	mending	her	dress;	mending	her	dress	as	usual,	he	thought;	here
she's	been	sitting	all	the	time	I've	been	in	India;	mending	her	dress;	playing
about;	going	to	parties;	running	to	the	House	and	back	and	all	that,	he	thought,
growing	more	and	more	irritated,	more	and	more	agitated,	for	there's	nothing
in	the	world	so	bad	for	some	women	as	marriage,	he	thought;	and	politics;	and
having	a	Conservative	husband,	like	the	admirable	Richard.	So	it	is,	so	it	is,	he
thought,	shutting	his	knife	with	a	snap.

"Richard's	very	well.	Richard's	at	a	Committee,"	said	Clarissa.

And	she	opened	her	scissors,	and	said,	did	he	mind	her	just	finishing	what	she
was	doing	to	her	dress,	for	they	had	a	party	that	night?

"Which	I	shan't	ask	you	to,"	she	said.	"My	dear	Peter!"	she	said.

But	it	was	delicious	to	hear	her	say	that--my	dear	Peter!	Indeed,	it	was	all	so
delicious--the	silver,	the	chairs;	all	so	delicious!

Why	wouldn't	she	ask	him	to	her	party?	he	asked.

Now	of	course,	thought	Clarissa,	he's	enchanting!	perfectly	enchanting!	Now	I
remember	 how	 impossible	 it	 was	 ever	 to	 make	 up	 my	 mind--and	 why	 did	 I
make	up	my	mind--not	to	marry	him?	she	wondered,	that	awful	summer?

"But	it's	so	extraordinary	that	you	should	have	come	this	morning!"	she	cried,
putting	her	hands,	one	on	top	of	another,	down	on	her	dress.

"Do	you	remember,"	she	said,	"how	the	blinds	used	to	flap	at	Bourton?"

"They	did,"	he	said;	and	he	remembered	breakfasting	alone,	very	awkwardly,
with	her	father;	who	had	died;	and	he	had	not	written	to	Clarissa.	But	he	had
never	 got	 on	 well	 with	 old	 Parry,	 that	 querulous,	 weak-kneed	 old	 man,
Clarissa's	father,	Justin	Parry.

"I	often	wish	I'd	got	on	better	with	your	father,"	he	said.

"But	he	never	liked	any	one	who--our	friends,"	said	Clarissa;	and	could	have
bitten	her	tongue	for	thus	reminding	Peter	that	he	had	wanted	to	marry	her.

Of	course	I	did,	thought	Peter;	it	almost	broke	my	heart	too,	he	thought;	and
was	overcome	with	his	own	grief,	which	rose	like	a	moon	looked	at	from	a
terrace,	ghastly	beautiful	with	light	from	the	sunken	day.	I	was	more	unhappy
than	I've	ever	been	since,	he	thought.	And	as	if	in	truth	he	were	sitting	there	on
the	terrace	he	edged	a	little	towards	Clarissa;	put	his	hand	out;	raised	it;	let	it
fall.	There	above	them	it	hung,	that	moon.	She	too	seemed	to	be	sitting	with
him	on	the	terrace,	in	the	moonlight.

"Herbert	has	it	now,"	she	said.	"I	never	go	there	now,"	she	said.

Then,	just	as	happens	on	a	terrace	in	the	moonlight,	when	one	person	begins	to
feel	 ashamed	 that	 he	 is	 already	 bored,	 and	 yet	 as	 the	 other	 sits	 silent,	 very
quiet,	sadly	looking	at	the	moon,	does	not	like	to	speak,	moves	his	foot,	clears
his	throat,	notices	some	iron	scroll	on	a	table	leg,	stirs	a	leaf,	but	says	nothing-
-so	Peter	Walsh	did	now.	For	why	go	back	like	this	to	the	past?	he	thought.
Why	make	him	think	of	it	again?	Why	make	him	suffer,	when	she	had	tortured
him	so	infernally?	Why?

"Do	you	remember	the	lake?"	she	said,	in	an	abrupt	voice,	under	the	pressure
of	an	emotion	which	caught	her	heart,	made	the	muscles	of	her	throat	stiff,	and
contracted	her	lips	in	a	spasm	as	she	said	"lake."	For	she	was	a	child,	throwing
bread	to	the	ducks,	between	her	parents,	and	at	the	same	time	a	grown	woman
coming	 to	 her	 parents	 who	 stood	 by	 the	 lake,	 holding	 her	 life	 in	 her	 arms
which,	as	she	neared	them,	grew	larger	and	larger	in	her	arms,	until	it	became
a	whole	life,	a	complete	life,	which	she	put	down	by	them	and	said,	"This	is
what	I	have	made	of	it!	This!"	And	what	had	she	made	of	it?	What,	indeed?
sitting	there	sewing	this	morning	with	Peter.

She	 looked	 at	 Peter	 Walsh;	 her	 look,	 passing	 through	 all	 that	 time	 and	 that
emotion,	 reached	 him	 doubtfully;	 settled	 on	 him	 tearfully;	 and	 rose	 and
fluttered	away,	as	a	bird	touches	a	branch	and	rises	and	flutters	away.	Quite
simply	she	wiped	her	eyes.

"Yes,"	 said	 Peter.	 "Yes,	 yes,	 yes,"	 he	 said,	 as	 if	 she	 drew	 up	 to	 the	 surface
something	which	positively	hurt	him	as	it	rose.	Stop!	Stop!	he	wanted	to	cry.

For	he	was	not	old;	his	life	was	not	over;	not	by	any	means.	He	was	only	just
past	fifty.	Shall	I	tell	her,	he	thought,	or	not?	He	would	like	to	make	a	clean
breast	of	it	all.	But	she	is	too	cold,	he	thought;	sewing,	with	her	scissors;	Daisy
would	look	ordinary	beside	Clarissa.	And	she	would	think	me	a	failure,	which
I	am	in	their	sense,	he	thought;	in	the	Dalloways'	sense.	Oh	yes,	he	had	no
doubt	about	that;	he	was	a	failure,	compared	with	all	this--the	inlaid	table,	the
mounted	 paper-knife,	 the	 dolphin	 and	 the	 candlesticks,	 the	 chair-covers	 and
the	old	valuable	English	tinted	prints--he	was	a	failure!	I	detest	the	smugness
of	the	whole	affair,	he	thought;	Richard's	doing,	not	Clarissa's;	save	that	she
married	him.	(Here	Lucy	came	into	the	room,	carrying	silver,	more	silver,	but
charming,	 slender,	 graceful	 she	 looked,	 he	 thought,	 as	 she	 stooped	 to	 put	 it
down.)	And	this	has	been	going	on	all	the	time!	he	thought;	week	after	week;
Clarissa's	life;	while	I--he	thought;	and	at	once	everything	seemed	to	radiate
from	 him;	 journeys;	 rides;	 quarrels;	 adventures;	 bridge	 parties;	 love	 affairs;
work;	 work,	 work!	 and	 he	 took	 out	 his	 knife	 quite	 openly--his	 old	 horn-
handled	knife	which	Clarissa	could	swear	he	had	had	these	thirty	years--and
clenched	his	fist	upon	it.

What	an	extraordinary	habit	that	was,	Clarissa	thought;	always	playing	with	a
knife.	 Always	 making	 one	 feel,	 too,	 frivolous;	 empty-minded;	 a	 mere	 silly
chatterbox,	 as	 he	 used.	 But	 I	 too,	 she	 thought,	 and,	 taking	 up	 her	 needle,
summoned,	 like	 a	 Queen	 whose	 guards	 have	 fallen	 asleep	 and	 left	 her
unprotected	(she	had	been	quite	taken	aback	by	this	visit--it	had	upset	her)	so
that	 any	 one	 can	 stroll	 in	 and	 have	 a	 look	 at	 her	 where	 she	 lies	 with	 the
brambles	 curving	 over	 her,	 summoned	 to	 her	 help	 the	 things	 she	 did;	 the
things	she	liked;	her	husband;	Elizabeth;	her	self,	in	short,	which	Peter	hardly
knew	now,	all	to	come	about	her	and	beat	off	the	enemy.

"Well,	and	what's	happened	to	you?"	she	said.	So	before	a	battle	begins,	the
horses	paw	the	ground;	toss	their	heads;	the	light	shines	on	their	flanks;	their
necks	curve.	So	Peter	Walsh	and	Clarissa,	sitting	side	by	side	on	the	blue	sofa,
challenged	 each	 other.	 His	 powers	 chafed	 and	 tossed	 in	 him.	 He	 assembled
from	 different	 quarters	 all	 sorts	 of	 things;	 praise;	 his	 career	 at	 Oxford;	 his
marriage,	 which	 she	 knew	 nothing	 whatever	 about;	 how	 he	 had	 loved;	 and
altogether	done	his	job.

"Millions	 of	 things!"	 he	 exclaimed,	 and,	 urged	 by	 the	 assembly	 of	 powers
which	were	now	charging	this	way	and	that	and	giving	him	the	feeling	at	once
frightening	and	extremely	exhilarating	of	being	rushed	through	the	air	on	the
shoulders	of	people	he	could	no	longer	see,	he	raised	his	hands	to	his	forehead.

Clarissa	sat	very	upright;	drew	in	her	breath.

"I	am	in	love,"	he	said,	not	to	her	however,	but	to	some	one	raised	up	in	the

dark	so	that	you	could	not	touch	her	but	must	lay	your	garland	down	on	the
grass	in	the	dark.

"In	 love,"	 he	 repeated,	 now	 speaking	 rather	 dryly	 to	 Clarissa	 Dalloway;	 "in
love	with	a	girl	in	India."	He	had	deposited	his	garland.	Clarissa	could	make
what	she	would	of	it.

"In	love!"	she	said.	That	he	at	his	age	should	be	sucked	under	in	his	little	bow-
tie	by	that	monster!	And	there's	no	flesh	on	his	neck;	his	hands	are	red;	and
he's	six	months	older	than	I	am!	her	eye	flashed	back	to	her;	but	in	her	heart
she	felt,	all	the	same,	he	is	in	love.	He	has	that,	she	felt;	he	is	in	love.

But	the	indomitable	egotism	which	for	ever	rides	down	the	hosts	opposed	to	it,
the	river	which	says	on,	on,	on;	even	though,	it	admits,	there	may	be	no	goal
for	us	whatever,	still	on,	on;	this	indomitable	egotism	charged	her	cheeks	with
colour;	made	her	look	very	young;	very	pink;	very	bright-eyed	as	she	sat	with
her	 dress	 upon	 her	 knee,	 and	 her	 needle	 held	 to	 the	 end	 of	 green	 silk,
trembling	a	little.	He	was	in	love!	Not	with	her.	With	some	younger	woman,	of
course.

"And	who	is	she?"	she	asked.

Now	this	statue	must	be	brought	from	its	height	and	set	down	between	them.

"A	married	woman,	unfortunately,"	he	said;	"the	wife	of	a	Major	in	the	Indian
Army."

And	 with	 a	 curious	 ironical	 sweetness	 he	 smiled	 as	 he	 placed	 her	 in	 this
ridiculous	way	before	Clarissa.

(All	the	same,	he	is	in	love,	thought	Clarissa.)

"She	 has,"	 he	 continued,	 very	 reasonably,	 "two	 small	 children;	 a	 boy	 and	 a
girl;	and	I	have	come	over	to	see	my	lawyers	about	the	divorce."

There	they	are!	he	thought.	Do	what	you	like	with	them,	Clarissa!	There	they
are!	And	second	by	second	it	seemed	to	him	that	the	wife	of	the	Major	in	the
Indian	Army	(his	Daisy)	and	her	two	small	children	became	more	and	more
lovely	as	Clarissa	looked	at	them;	as	if	he	had	set	light	to	a	grey	pellet	on	a
plate	 and	 there	 had	 risen	 up	 a	 lovely	 tree	 in	 the	 brisk	 sea-salted	 air	 of	 their
intimacy	(for	in	some	ways	no	one	understood	him,	felt	with	him,	as	Clarissa
did)--their	exquisite	intimacy.

She	flattered	him;	she	fooled	him,	thought	Clarissa;	shaping	the	woman,	the
wife	of	the	Major	in	the	Indian	Army,	with	three	strokes	of	a	knife.	What	a
waste!	 What	 a	 folly!	 All	 his	 life	 long	 Peter	 had	 been	 fooled	 like	 that;	 first

getting	sent	down	from	Oxford;	next	marrying	the	girl	on	the	boat	going	out	to
India;	 now	 the	 wife	 of	 a	 Major	 in	 the	 Indian	 Army--thank	 Heaven	 she	 had
refused	to	marry	him!	Still,	he	was	in	love;	her	old	friend,	her	dear	Peter,	he
was	in	love.

"But	what	are	you	going	to	do?"	she	asked	him.	Oh	the	lawyers	and	solicitors,
Messrs.	 Hooper	 and	 Grateley	 of	 Lincoln's	 Inn,	 they	 were	 going	 to	 do	 it,	 he
said.	And	he	actually	pared	his	nails	with	his	pocket-knife.

For	Heaven's	sake,	leave	your	knife	alone!	she	cried	to	herself	in	irrepressible
irritation;	it	was	his	silly	unconventionality,	his	weakness;	his	lack	of	the	ghost
of	 a	 notion	 what	 any	 one	 else	 was	 feeling	 that	 annoyed	 her,	 had	 always
annoyed	her;	and	now	at	his	age,	how	silly!

I	know	all	that,	Peter	thought;	I	know	what	I'm	up	against,	he	thought,	running
his	finger	along	the	blade	of	his	knife,	Clarissa	and	Dalloway	and	all	the	rest
of	them;	but	I'll	show	Clarissa--and	then	to	his	utter	surprise,	suddenly	thrown
by	 those	 uncontrollable	 forces	 thrown	 through	 the	 air,	 he	 burst	 into	 tears;
wept;	wept	without	the	least	shame,	sitting	on	the	sofa,	the	tears	running	down
his	cheeks.

And	Clarissa	had	leant	forward,	taken	his	hand,	drawn	him	to	her,	kissed	him,-
-actually	had	felt	his	face	on	hers	before	she	could	down	the	brandishing	of
silver	flashing--plumes	like	pampas	grass	in	a	tropic	gale	in	her	breast,	which,
subsiding,	left	her	holding	his	hand,	patting	his	knee	and,	feeling	as	she	sat
back	 extraordinarily	 at	 her	 ease	 with	 him	 and	 light-hearted,	 all	 in	 a	 clap	 it
came	over	her,	If	I	had	married	him,	this	gaiety	would	have	been	mine	all	day!

It	was	all	over	for	her.	The	sheet	was	stretched	and	the	bed	narrow.	She	had
gone	up	into	the	tower	alone	and	left	them	blackberrying	in	the	sun.	The	door
had	shut,	and	there	among	the	dust	of	fallen	plaster	and	the	litter	of	birds'	nests
how	distant	the	view	had	looked,	and	the	sounds	came	thin	and	chill	(once	on
Leith	Hill,	she	remembered),	and	Richard,	Richard!	she	cried,	as	a	sleeper	in
the	night	starts	and	stretches	a	hand	in	the	dark	for	help.	Lunching	with	Lady
Bruton,	it	came	back	to	her.	He	has	left	me;	I	am	alone	for	ever,	she	thought,
folding	her	hands	upon	her	knee.

Peter	Walsh	had	got	up	and	crossed	to	the	window	and	stood	with	his	back	to
her,	flicking	a	bandanna	handkerchief	from	side	to	side.	Masterly	and	dry	and
desolate	he	looked,	his	thin	shoulder-blades	lifting	his	coat	slightly;	blowing
his	 nose	 violently.	 Take	 me	 with	 you,	 Clarissa	 thought	 impulsively,	 as	 if	 he
were	starting	directly	upon	some	great	voyage;	and	then,	next	moment,	it	was
as	if	the	five	acts	of	a	play	that	had	been	very	exciting	and	moving	were	now
over	and	she	had	lived	a	lifetime	in	them	and	had	run	away,	had	lived	with

Peter,	and	it	was	now	over.

Now	it	was	time	to	move,	and,	as	a	woman	gathers	her	things	together,	her
cloak,	her	gloves,	her	opera-glasses,	and	gets	up	to	go	out	of	the	theatre	into
the	street,	she	rose	from	the	sofa	and	went	to	Peter.

And	it	was	awfully	strange,	he	thought,	how	she	still	had	the	power,	as	she
came	 tinkling,	 rustling,	 still	 had	 the	 power	 as	 she	 came	 across	 the	 room,	 to
make	 the	 moon,	 which	 he	 detested,	 rise	 at	 Bourton	 on	 the	 terrace	 in	 the
summer	sky.

"Tell	 me,"	 he	 said,	 seizing	 her	 by	 the	 shoulders.	 "Are	 you	 happy,	 Clarissa?
Does	Richard--"

The	door	opened.

"Here	is	my	Elizabeth,"	said	Clarissa,	emotionally,	histrionically,	perhaps.

"How	d'y	do?"	said	Elizabeth	coming	forward.

The	 sound	 of	 Big	 Ben	 striking	 the	 half-hour	 struck	 out	 between	 them	 with
extraordinary	 vigour,	 as	 if	 a	 young	 man,	 strong,	 indifferent,	 inconsiderate,
were	swinging	dumb-bells	this	way	and	that.

"Hullo,	Elizabeth!"	cried	Peter,	stuffing	his	handkerchief	into	his	pocket,	going
quickly	to	her,	saying	"Good-bye,	Clarissa"	without	looking	at	her,	leaving	the
room	quickly,	and	running	downstairs	and	opening	the	hall	door.

"Peter!	Peter!"	cried	Clarissa,	following	him	out	on	to	the	landing.	"My	party
to-night!	Remember	my	party	to-night!"	she	cried,	having	to	raise	her	voice
against	the	roar	of	the	open	air,	and,	overwhelmed	by	the	traffic	and	the	sound
of	 all	 the	 clocks	 striking,	 her	 voice	 crying	 "Remember	 my	 party	 to-night!"
sounded	frail	and	thin	and	very	far	away	as	Peter	Walsh	shut	the	door.

	

	

Remember	 my	 party,	 remember	 my	 party,	 said	 Peter	 Walsh	 as	 he	 stepped
down	the	street,	speaking	to	himself	rhythmically,	in	time	with	the	flow	of	the
sound,	 the	 direct	 downright	 sound	 of	 Big	 Ben	 striking	 the	 half-hour.	 (The
leaden	 circles	 dissolved	 in	 the	 air.)	 Oh	 these	 parties,	 he	 thought;	 Clarissa's
parties.	Why	does	she	give	these	parties,	he	thought.	Not	that	he	blamed	her	or
this	effigy	of	a	man	in	a	tail-coat	with	a	carnation	in	his	buttonhole	coming
towards	him.	Only	one	person	in	the	world	could	be	as	he	was,	in	love.	And
there	he	was,	this	fortunate	man,	himself,	reflected	in	the	plate-glass	window

of	 a	 motor-car	 manufacturer	 in	 Victoria	 Street.	 All	 India	 lay	 behind	 him;
plains,	 mountains;	 epidemics	 of	 cholera;	 a	 district	 twice	 as	 big	 as	 Ireland;
decisions	he	had	come	to	alone--he,	Peter	Walsh;	who	was	now	really	for	the
first	time	in	his	life,	in	love.	Clarissa	had	grown	hard,	he	thought;	and	a	trifle
sentimental	 into	 the	 bargain,	 he	 suspected,	 looking	 at	 the	 great	 motor-cars
capable	of	doing--how	many	miles	on	how	many	gallons?	For	he	had	a	turn
for	 mechanics;	 had	 invented	 a	 plough	 in	 his	 district,	 had	 ordered	 wheel-
barrows	 from	 England,	 but	 the	 coolies	 wouldn't	 use	 them,	 all	 of	 which
Clarissa	knew	nothing	whatever	about.

The	way	she	said	"Here	is	my	Elizabeth!"--that	annoyed	him.	Why	not	"Here's
Elizabeth"	simply?	It	was	insincere.	And	Elizabeth	didn't	like	it	either.	(Still
the	last	tremors	of	the	great	booming	voice	shook	the	air	round	him;	the	half-
hour;	still	early;	only	half-past	eleven	still.)	For	he	understood	young	people;
he	liked	them.	There	was	always	something	cold	in	Clarissa,	he	thought.	She
had	always,	 even	as	 a	girl,	 a	sort	 of	 timidity,	which	 in	middle	 age	becomes
conventionality,	 and	 then	 it's	 all	 up,	 it's	 all	 up,	 he	 thought,	 looking	 rather
drearily	into	the	glassy	depths,	and	wondering	whether	by	calling	at	that	hour
he	 had	 annoyed	 her;	 overcome	 with	 shame	 suddenly	 at	 having	 been	 a	 fool;
wept;	been	emotional;	told	her	everything,	as	usual,	as	usual.

As	 a	 cloud	 crosses	 the	 sun,	 silence	 falls	 on	 London;	 and	 falls	 on	 the	 mind.
Effort	ceases.	Time	flaps	on	the	mast.	There	we	stop;	there	we	stand.	Rigid,
the	skeleton	of	habit	alone	upholds	the	human	frame.	Where	there	is	nothing,
Peter	 Walsh	 said	 to	 himself;	 feeling	 hollowed	 out,	 utterly	 empty	 within.
Clarissa	refused	me,	he	thought.	He	stood	there	thinking,	Clarissa	refused	me.

Ah,	said	St.	Margaret's,	like	a	hostess	who	comes	into	her	drawing-room	on
the	very	stroke	of	the	hour	and	finds	her	guests	there	already.	I	am	not	late.
No,	it	is	precisely	half-past	eleven,	she	says.	Yet,	though	she	is	perfectly	right,
her	voice,	being	the	voice	of	the	hostess,	is	reluctant	to	inflict	its	individuality.
Some	grief	for	the	past	holds	it	back;	some	concern	for	the	present.	It	is	half-
past	eleven,	she	says,	and	the	sound	of	St.	Margaret's	glides	into	the	recesses
of	the	heart	and	buries	itself	in	ring	after	ring	of	sound,	like	something	alive
which	wants	to	confide	itself,	to	disperse	itself,	to	be,	with	a	tremor	of	delight,
at	rest--like	Clarissa	herself,	thought	Peter	Walsh,	coming	down	the	stairs	on
the	stroke	of	the	hour	in	white.	It	is	Clarissa	herself,	he	thought,	with	a	deep
emotion,	 and	 an	 extraordinarily	 clear,	 yet	 puzzling,	 recollection	 of	 her,	 as	 if
this	bell	had	come	into	the	room	years	ago,	where	they	sat	at	some	moment	of
great	intimacy,	and	had	gone	from	one	to	the	other	and	had	left,	like	a	bee	with
honey,	laden	with	the	moment.	But	what	room?	What	moment?	And	why	had
he	been	so	profoundly	happy	when	the	clock	was	striking?	Then,	as	the	sound
of	 St.	 Margaret's	 languished,	 he	 thought,	 She	 has	 been	 ill,	 and	 the	 sound

expressed	 languor	 and	 suffering.	 It	 was	 her	 heart,	 he	 remembered;	 and	 the
sudden	loudness	of	the	final	stroke	tolled	for	death	that	surprised	in	the	midst
of	 life,	 Clarissa	 falling	 where	 she	 stood,	 in	 her	 drawing-room.	 No!	 No!	 he
cried.	She	is	not	dead!	I	am	not	old,	he	cried,	and	marched	up	Whitehall,	as	if
there	rolled	down	to	him,	vigorous,	unending,	his	future.

He	was	not	old,	or	set,	or	dried	in	the	least.	As	for	caring	what	they	said	of
him--the	Dalloways,	the	Whitbreads,	and	their	set,	he	cared	not	a	straw--not	a
straw	(though	it	was	true	he	would	have,	some	time	or	other,	to	see	whether
Richard	 couldn't	 help	 him	 to	 some	 job).	 Striding,	 staring,	 he	 glared	 at	 the
statue	of	the	Duke	of	Cambridge.	He	had	been	sent	down	from	Oxford--true.
He	 had	 been	 a	 Socialist,	 in	 some	 sense	 a	 failure--true.	 Still	 the	 future	 of
civilisation	lies,	he	thought,	in	the	hands	of	young	men	like	that;	of	young	men
such	as	he	was,	thirty	years	ago;	with	their	love	of	abstract	principles;	getting
books	sent	out	to	them	all	the	way	from	London	to	a	peak	in	the	Himalayas;
reading	science;	reading	philosophy.	The	future	lies	in	the	hands	of	young	men
like	that,	he	thought.

A	patter	like	the	patter	of	leaves	in	a	wood	came	from	behind,	and	with	it	a
rustling,	 regular	 thudding	 sound,	 which	 as	 it	 overtook	 him	 drummed	 his
thoughts,	 strict	 in	 step,	 up	 Whitehall,	 without	 his	 doing.	 Boys	 in	 uniform,
carrying	 guns,	 marched	 with	 their	 eyes	 ahead	 of	 them,	 marched,	 their	 arms
stiff,	and	on	their	faces	an	expression	like	the	letters	of	a	legend	written	round
the	base	of	a	statue	praising	duty,	gratitude,	fidelity,	love	of	England.

It	 is,	 thought	 Peter	 Walsh,	 beginning	 to	 keep	 step	 with	 them,	 a	 very	 fine
training.	 But	 they	 did	 not	 look	 robust.	 They	 were	 weedy	 for	 the	 most	 part,
boys	of	sixteen,	who	might,	to-morrow,	stand	behind	bowls	of	rice,	cakes	of
soap	on	counters.	Now	they	wore	on	them	unmixed	with	sensual	pleasure	or
daily	preoccupations	the	solemnity	of	the	wreath	which	they	had	fetched	from
Finsbury	Pavement	to	the	empty	tomb.	They	had	taken	their	vow.	The	traffic
respected	it;	vans	were	stopped.

I	can't	keep	up	with	them,	Peter	Walsh	thought,	as	they	marched	up	Whitehall,
and	sure	enough,	on	they	marched,	past	him,	past	every	one,	in	their	steady
way,	as	if	one	will	worked	legs	and	arms	uniformly,	and	life,	with	its	varieties,
its	 irreticences,	 had	 been	 laid	 under	 a	 pavement	 of	 monuments	 and	 wreaths
and	drugged	into	a	stiff	yet	staring	corpse	by	discipline.	One	had	to	respect	it;
one	might	laugh;	but	one	had	to	respect	it,	he	thought.	There	they	go,	thought
Peter	Walsh,	pausing	at	the	edge	of	the	pavement;	and	all	the	exalted	statues,
Nelson,	Gordon,	Havelock,	the	black,	the	spectacular	images	of	great	soldiers
stood	looking	ahead	of	them,	as	if	they	too	had	made	the	same	renunciation
(Peter	Walsh	felt	he	too	had	made	it,	the	great	renunciation),	trampled	under
the	 same	 temptations,	 and	 achieved	 at	 length	 a	 marble	 stare.	 But	 the	 stare

Peter	Walsh	did	not	want	for	himself	in	the	least;	though	he	could	respect	it	in
others.	He	could	respect	it	in	boys.	They	don't	know	the	troubles	of	the	flesh
yet,	 he	 thought,	 as	 the	 marching	 boys	 disappeared	 in	 the	 direction	 of	 the
Strand--all	that	I've	been	through,	he	thought,	crossing	the	road,	and	standing
under	 Gordon's	 statue,	 Gordon	 whom	 as	 a	 boy	 he	 had	 worshipped;	 Gordon
standing	 lonely	 with	 one	 leg	 raised	 and	 his	 arms	 crossed,--poor	 Gordon,	 he
thought.

And	just	because	nobody	yet	knew	he	was	in	London,	except	Clarissa,	and	the
earth,	 after	 the	 voyage,	 still	 seemed	 an	 island	 to	 him,	 the	 strangeness	 of
standing	 alone,	 alive,	 unknown,	 at	 half-past	 eleven	 in	 Trafalgar	 Square
overcame	him.	What	is	it?	Where	am	I?	And	why,	after	all,	does	one	do	it?	he
thought,	the	divorce	seeming	all	moonshine.	And	down	his	mind	went	flat	as	a
marsh,	 and	 three	 great	 emotions	 bowled	 over	 him;	 understanding;	 a	 vast
philanthropy;	 and	 finally,	 as	 if	 the	 result	 of	 the	 others,	 an	 irrepressible,
exquisite	 delight;	 as	 if	 inside	 his	 brain	 by	 another	 hand	 strings	 were	 pulled,
shutters	moved,	and	he,	having	nothing	to	do	with	it,	yet	stood	at	the	opening
of	endless	avenues,	down	which	if	he	chose	he	might	wander.	He	had	not	felt
so	young	for	years.

He	had	escaped!	was	utterly	free--as	happens	in	the	downfall	of	habit	when
the	mind,	like	an	unguarded	flame,	bows	and	bends	and	seems	about	to	blow
from	 its	 holding.	 I	 haven't	 felt	 so	 young	 for	 years!	 thought	 Peter,	 escaping
(only	 of	 course	 for	 an	 hour	 or	 so)	 from	 being	 precisely	 what	 he	 was,	 and
feeling	like	a	child	who	runs	out	of	doors,	and	sees,	as	he	runs,	his	old	nurse
waving	at	the	wrong	window.	But	she's	extraordinarily	attractive,	he	thought,
as,	walking	across	Trafalgar	Square	in	the	direction	of	the	Haymarket,	came	a
young	 woman	 who,	 as	 she	 passed	 Gordon's	 statue,	 seemed,	 Peter	 Walsh
thought	(susceptible	as	he	was),	to	shed	veil	after	veil,	until	she	became	the
very	 woman	 he	 had	 always	 had	 in	 mind;	 young,	 but	 stately;	 merry,	 but
discreet;	black,	but	enchanting.

Straightening	himself	and	stealthily	fingering	his	pocket-knife	he	started	after
her	to	follow	this	woman,	this	excitement,	which	seemed	even	with	its	back
turned	to	shed	on	him	a	light	which	connected	them,	which	singled	him	out,	as
if	the	random	uproar	of	the	traffic	had	whispered	through	hollowed	hands	his
name,	 not	 Peter,	 but	 his	 private	 name	 which	 he	 called	 himself	 in	 his	 own
thoughts.	"You,"	she	said,	only	"you,"	saying	it	with	her	white	gloves	and	her
shoulders.	Then	the	thin	long	cloak	which	the	wind	stirred	as	she	walked	past
Dent's	 shop	 in	 Cockspur	 Street	 blew	 out	 with	 an	 enveloping	 kindness,	 a
mournful	tenderness,	as	of	arms	that	would	open	and	take	the	tired--

But	 she's	 not	 married;	 she's	 young;	 quite	 young,	 thought	 Peter,	 the	 red
carnation	he	had	seen	her	wear	as	she	came	across	Trafalgar	Square	burning

again	 in	 his	 eyes	 and	 making	 her	 lips	 red.	 But	 she	 waited	 at	 the	 kerbstone.
There	was	a	dignity	about	her.	She	was	not	worldly,	like	Clarissa;	not	rich,	like
Clarissa.	 Was	 she,	 he	 wondered	 as	 she	 moved,	 respectable?	 Witty,	 with	 a
lizard's	flickering	tongue,	he	thought	(for	one	must	invent,	must	allow	oneself
a	little	diversion),	a	cool	waiting	wit,	a	darting	wit;	not	noisy.

She	moved;	she	crossed;	he	followed	her.	To	embarrass	her	was	the	last	thing
he	 wished.	 Still	 if	 she	 stopped	 he	 would	 say	 "Come	 and	 have	 an	 ice,"	 he
would	say,	and	she	would	answer,	perfectly	simply,	"Oh	yes."

But	other	people	got	between	them	in	the	street,	obstructing	him,	blotting	her
out.	He	pursued;	she	changed.	There	was	colour	in	her	cheeks;	mockery	in	her
eyes;	he	was	an	adventurer,	reckless,	he	thought,	swift,	daring,	indeed	(landed
as	 he	 was	 last	 night	 from	 India)	 a	 romantic	 buccaneer,	 careless	 of	 all	 these
damned	 proprieties,	 yellow	 dressing-gowns,	 pipes,	 fishing-rods,	 in	 the	 shop
windows;	and	respectability	and	evening	parties	and	spruce	old	men	wearing
white	slips	beneath	their	waistcoats.	He	was	a	buccaneer.	On	and	on	she	went,
across	Piccadilly,	and	up	Regent	Street,	ahead	of	him,	her	cloak,	her	gloves,
her	shoulders	combining	with	the	fringes	and	the	laces	and	the	feather	boas	in
the	windows	to	make	the	spirit	of	finery	and	whimsy	which	dwindled	out	of
the	shops	on	to	the	pavement,	as	the	light	of	a	lamp	goes	wavering	at	night
over	hedges	in	the	darkness.

Laughing	 and	 delightful,	 she	 had	 crossed	 Oxford	 Street	 and	 Great	 Portland
Street	and	turned	down	one	of	the	little	streets,	and	now,	and	now,	the	great
moment	was	approaching,	for	now	she	slackened,	opened	her	bag,	and	with
one	look	in	his	direction,	but	not	at	him,	one	look	that	bade	farewell,	summed
up	the	whole	situation	and	dismissed	it	triumphantly,	for	ever,	had	fitted	her
key,	opened	the	door,	and	gone!	Clarissa's	voice	saying,	Remember	my	party,
Remember	 my	 party,	 sang	 in	 his	 ears.	 The	 house	 was	 one	 of	 those	 flat	 red
houses	with	hanging	flower-baskets	of	vague	impropriety.	It	was	over.

Well,	 I've	 had	 my	 fun;	 I've	 had	 it,	 he	 thought,	 looking	 up	 at	 the	 swinging
baskets	of	pale	geraniums.	And	it	was	smashed	to	atoms--his	fun,	for	it	was
half	 made	 up,	 as	 he	 knew	 very	 well;	 invented,	 this	 escapade	 with	 the	 girl;
made	up,	as	one	makes	up	the	better	part	of	life,	he	thought--making	oneself
up;	making	her	up;	creating	an	exquisite	amusement,	and	something	more.	But
odd	it	was,	and	quite	true;	all	this	one	could	never	share--it	smashed	to	atoms.

He	turned;	went	up	the	street,	thinking	to	find	somewhere	to	sit,	till	it	was	time
for	Lincoln's	Inn--for	Messrs.	Hooper	and	Grateley.	Where	should	he	go?	No
matter.	Up	the	street,	then,	towards	Regent's	Park.	His	boots	on	the	pavement
struck	out	"no	matter";	for	it	was	early,	still	very	early.

It	 was	 a	 splendid	 morning	 too.	 Like	 the	 pulse	 of	 a	 perfect	 heart,	 life	 struck
straight	through	the	streets.	There	was	no	fumbling--no	hesitation.	Sweeping
and	swerving,	accurately,	punctually,	noiselessly,	there,	precisely	at	the	right
instant,	the	motor-car	stopped	at	the	door.	The	girl,	silk-stockinged,	feathered,
evanescent,	 but	 not	 to	 him	 particularly	 attractive	 (for	 he	 had	 had	 his	 fling),
alighted.	Admirable	butlers,	tawny	chow	dogs,	halls	laid	in	black	and	white
lozenges	with	white	blinds	blowing,	Peter	saw	through	the	opened	door	and
approved	 of.	 A	 splendid	 achievement	 in	 its	 own	 way,	 after	 all,	 London;	 the
season;	civilisation.	Coming	as	he	did	from	a	respectable	Anglo-Indian	family
which	for	at	least	three	generations	had	administered	the	affairs	of	a	continent
(it's	strange,	he	thought,	what	a	sentiment	I	have	about	that,	disliking	India,
and	empire,	and	army	as	he	did),	there	were	moments	when	civilisation,	even
of	this	sort,	seemed	dear	to	him	as	a	personal	possession;	moments	of	pride	in
England;	in	butlers;	chow	dogs;	girls	in	their	security.	Ridiculous	enough,	still
there	 it	 is,	 he	 thought.	 And	 the	 doctors	 and	 men	 of	 business	 and	 capable
women	all	going	about	their	business,	punctual,	alert,	robust,	seemed	to	him
wholly	 admirable,	 good	 fellows,	 to	 whom	 one	 would	 entrust	 one's	 life,
companions	in	the	art	of	living,	who	would	see	one	through.	What	with	one
thing	and	another,	the	show	was	really	very	tolerable;	and	he	would	sit	down
in	the	shade	and	smoke.

There	was	Regent's	Park.	Yes.	As	a	child	he	had	walked	in	Regent's	Park--odd,
he	thought,	how	the	thought	of	childhood	keeps	coming	back	to	me--the	result
of	seeing	Clarissa,	perhaps;	for	women	live	much	more	in	the	past	than	we	do,
he	 thought.	 They	 attach	 themselves	 to	 places;	 and	 their	 fathers--a	 woman's
always	proud	of	her	father.	Bourton	was	a	nice	place,	a	very	nice	place,	but	I
could	never	get	on	with	the	old	man,	he	thought.	There	was	quite	a	scene	one
night--an	 argument	 about	 something	 or	 other,	 what,	 he	 could	 not	 remember.
Politics	presumably.

Yes,	 he	 remembered	 Regent's	 Park;	 the	 long	 straight	 walk;	 the	 little	 house
where	 one	 bought	 air-balls	 to	 the	 left;	 an	 absurd	 statue	 with	 an	 inscription
somewhere	 or	 other.	 He	 looked	 for	 an	 empty	 seat.	 He	 did	 not	 want	 to	 be
bothered	(feeling	a	little	drowsy	as	he	did)	by	people	asking	him	the	time.	An
elderly	grey	nurse,	with	a	baby	asleep	in	its	perambulator--that	was	the	best	he
could	do	for	himself;	sit	down	at	the	far	end	of	the	seat	by	that	nurse.

She's	a	queer-looking	girl,	he	thought,	suddenly	remembering	Elizabeth	as	she
came	into	the	room	and	stood	by	her	mother.	Grown	big;	quite	grown-up,	not
exactly	pretty;	handsome	rather;	and	she	can't	be	more	than	eighteen.	Probably
she	doesn't	get	on	with	Clarissa.	"There's	my	Elizabeth"--that	sort	of	thing--
why	 not	 "Here's	 Elizabeth"	 simply?--trying	 to	 make	 out,	 like	 most	 mothers,
that	things	are	what	they're	not.	She	trusts	to	her	charm	too	much,	he	thought.

She	overdoes	it.

The	rich	benignant	cigar	smoke	eddied	coolly	down	his	throat;	he	puffed	it	out
again	in	rings	which	breasted	the	air	bravely	for	a	moment;	blue,	circular--I
shall	try	and	get	a	word	alone	with	Elizabeth	to-night,	he	thought--then	began
to	 wobble	 into	 hour-glass	 shapes	 and	 taper	 away;	 odd	 shapes	 they	 take,	 he
thought.	Suddenly	he	closed	his	eyes,	raised	his	hand	with	an	effort,	and	threw
away	the	heavy	end	of	his	cigar.	A	great	brush	swept	smooth	across	his	mind,
sweeping	across	it	moving	branches,	children's	voices,	the	shuffle	of	feet,	and
people	passing,	and	humming	traffic,	rising	and	falling	traffic.	Down,	down	he
sank	into	the	plumes	and	feathers	of	sleep,	sank,	and	was	muffled	over.

	

	

The	grey	nurse	resumed	her	knitting	as	Peter	Walsh,	on	the	hot	seat	beside	her,
began	snoring.	In	her	grey	dress,	moving	her	hands	indefatigably	yet	quietly,
she	 seemed	 like	 the	 champion	 of	 the	 rights	 of	 sleepers,	 like	 one	 of	 those
spectral	presences	which	rise	in	twilight	in	woods	made	of	sky	and	branches.
The	 solitary	 traveller,	 haunter	 of	 lanes,	 disturber	 of	 ferns,	 and	 devastator	 of
great	hemlock	plants,	looking	up,	suddenly	sees	the	giant	figure	at	the	end	of
the	ride.

By	 conviction	 an	 atheist	 perhaps,	 he	 is	 taken	 by	 surprise	 with	 moments	 of
extraordinary	exaltation.	Nothing	exists	outside	us	except	a	state	of	mind,	he
thinks;	 a	 desire	 for	 solace,	 for	 relief,	 for	 something	 outside	 these	 miserable
pigmies,	these	feeble,	these	ugly,	these	craven	men	and	women.	But	if	he	can
conceive	of	her,	then	in	some	sort	she	exists,	he	thinks,	and	advancing	down
the	path	with	his	eyes	upon	sky	and	branches	he	rapidly	endows	them	with
womanhood;	sees	with	amazement	how	grave	they	become;	how	majestically,
as	the	breeze	stirs	them,	they	dispense	with	a	dark	flutter	of	the	leaves	charity,
comprehension,	 absolution,	 and	 then,	 flinging	 themselves	 suddenly	 aloft,
confound	the	piety	of	their	aspect	with	a	wild	carouse.

Such	are	the	visions	which	proffer	great	cornucopias	full	of	fruit	to	the	solitary
traveller,	 or	 murmur	 in	 his	 ear	 like	 sirens	 lolloping	 away	 on	 the	 green	 sea
waves,	or	are	dashed	in	his	face	like	bunches	of	roses,	or	rise	to	the	surface
like	pale	faces	which	fishermen	flounder	through	floods	to	embrace.

Such	are	the	visions	which	ceaselessly	float	up,	pace	beside,	put	their	faces	in
front	of,	the	actual	thing;	often	overpowering	the	solitary	traveller	and	taking
away	from	him	the	sense	of	the	earth,	the	wish	to	return,	and	giving	him	for
substitute	a	general	peace,	as	if	(so	he	thinks	as	he	advances	down	the	forest
ride)	 all	 this	 fever	 of	 living	 were	 simplicity	 itself;	 and	 myriads	 of	 things

merged	in	one	thing;	and	this	figure,	made	of	sky	and	branches	as	it	is,	had
risen	from	the	troubled	sea	(he	is	elderly,	past	fifty	now)	as	a	shape	might	be
sucked	 up	 out	 of	 the	 waves	 to	 shower	 down	 from	 her	 magnificent	 hands
compassion,	comprehension,	absolution.	So,	he	thinks,	may	I	never	go	back	to
the	lamplight;	to	the	sitting-room;	never	finish	my	book;	never	knock	out	my
pipe;	never	ring	for	Mrs.	Turner	to	clear	away;	rather	let	me	walk	straight	on
to	 this	 great	 figure,	 who	 will,	 with	 a	 toss	 of	 her	 head,	 mount	 me	 on	 her
streamers	and	let	me	blow	to	nothingness	with	the	rest.

Such	are	the	visions.	The	solitary	traveller	is	soon	beyond	the	wood;	and	there,
coming	 to	 the	 door	 with	 shaded	 eyes,	 possibly	 to	 look	 for	 his	 return,	 with
hands	raised,	with	white	apron	blowing,	is	an	elderly	woman	who	seems	(so
powerful	 is	 this	 infirmity)	 to	 seek,	 over	 a	 desert,	 a	 lost	 son;	 to	 search	 for	 a
rider	destroyed;	to	be	the	figure	of	the	mother	whose	sons	have	been	killed	in
the	battles	of	the	world.	So,	as	the	solitary	traveller	advances	down	the	village
street	 where	 the	 women	 stand	 knitting	 and	 the	 men	 dig	 in	 the	 garden,	 the
evening	 seems	 ominous;	 the	 figures	 still;	 as	 if	 some	 august	 fate,	 known	 to
them,	 awaited	 without	 fear,	 were	 about	 to	 sweep	 them	 into	 complete
annihilation.

Indoors	among	ordinary	things,	the	cupboard,	the	table,	the	window-sill	with
its	 geraniums,	 suddenly	 the	 outline	 of	 the	 landlady,	 bending	 to	 remove	 the
cloth,	 becomes	 soft	 with	 light,	 an	 adorable	 emblem	 which	 only	 the
recollection	 of	 cold	 human	 contacts	 forbids	 us	 to	 embrace.	 She	 takes	 the
marmalade;	she	shuts	it	in	the	cupboard.

"There	is	nothing	more	to-night,	sir?"

But	to	whom	does	the	solitary	traveller	make	reply?

	

	

So	the	elderly	nurse	knitted	over	the	sleeping	baby	in	Regent's	Park.	So	Peter
Walsh	snored.

He	woke	with	extreme	suddenness,	saying	to	himself,	"The	death	of	the	soul."

"Lord,	 Lord!"	 he	 said	 to	 himself	 out	 loud,	 stretching	 and	 opening	 his	 eyes.
"The	 death	 of	 the	 soul."	 The	 words	 attached	 themselves	 to	 some	 scene,	 to
some	 room,	 to	 some	 past	 he	 had	 been	 dreaming	 of.	 It	 became	 clearer;	 the
scene,	the	room,	the	past	he	had	been	dreaming	of.

It	 was	 at	 Bourton	 that	 summer,	 early	 in	 the	 'nineties,	 when	 he	 was	 so
passionately	 in	 love	 with	 Clarissa.	 There	 were	 a	 great	 many	 people	 there,

laughing	and	talking,	sitting	round	a	table	after	tea	and	the	room	was	bathed	in
yellow	light	and	full	of	cigarette	smoke.	They	were	talking	about	a	man	who
had	married	his	housemaid,	one	of	the	neighbouring	squires,	he	had	forgotten
his	name.	He	had	married	his	housemaid,	and	she	had	been	brought	to	Bourton
to	 call--an	 awful	 visit	 it	 had	 been.	 She	 was	 absurdly	 over-dressed,	 "like	 a
cockatoo,"	Clarissa	had	said,	imitating	her,	and	she	never	stopped	talking.	On
and	on	she	went,	on	and	on.	Clarissa	imitated	her.	Then	somebody	said--Sally
Seton	 it	 was--did	 it	 make	 any	 real	 difference	 to	 one's	 feelings	 to	 know	 that
before	they'd	married	she	had	had	a	baby?	(In	those	days,	in	mixed	company,
it	 was	 a	 bold	 thing	 to	 say.)	 He	 could	 see	 Clarissa	 now,	 turning	 bright	 pink;
somehow	contracting;	and	saying,	"Oh,	I	shall	never	be	able	to	speak	to	her
again!"	 Whereupon	 the	 whole	 party	 sitting	 round	 the	 tea-table	 seemed	 to
wobble.	It	was	very	uncomfortable.

He	hadn't	blamed	her	for	minding	the	fact,	since	in	those	days	a	girl	brought
up	as	she	was,	knew	nothing,	but	it	was	her	manner	that	annoyed	him;	timid;
hard;	something	arrogant;	unimaginative;	prudish.	"The	death	of	the	soul."	He
had	said	that	instinctively,	ticketing	the	moment	as	he	used	to	do--the	death	of
her	soul.

Every	one	wobbled;	every	one	seemed	to	bow,	as	she	spoke,	and	then	to	stand
up	different.	He	could	see	Sally	Seton,	like	a	child	who	has	been	in	mischief,
leaning	forward,	rather	flushed,	wanting	to	talk,	but	afraid,	and	Clarissa	did
frighten	 people.	 (She	 was	 Clarissa's	 greatest	 friend,	 always	 about	 the	 place,
totally	unlike	her,	an	attractive	creature,	handsome,	dark,	with	the	reputation	in
those	days	of	great	daring	and	he	used	to	give	her	cigars,	which	she	smoked	in
her	bedroom.	She	had	either	been	engaged	to	somebody	or	quarrelled	with	her
family	 and	 old	 Parry	 disliked	 them	 both	 equally,	 which	 was	 a	 great	 bond.)
Then	Clarissa,	still	with	an	air	of	being	offended	with	them	all,	got	up,	made
some	excuse,	and	went	off,	alone.	As	she	opened	the	door,	in	came	that	great
shaggy	 dog	 which	 ran	 after	 sheep.	 She	 flung	 herself	 upon	 him,	 went	 into
raptures.	It	was	as	if	she	said	to	Peter--it	was	all	aimed	at	him,	he	knew--"I
know	 you	 thought	 me	 absurd	 about	 that	 woman	 just	 now;	 but	 see	 how
extraordinarily	sympathetic	I	am;	see	how	I	love	my	Rob!"

They	 had	 always	 this	 queer	 power	 of	 communicating	 without	 words.	 She
knew	directly	he	criticised	her.	Then	she	would	do	something	quite	obvious	to
defend	herself,	like	this	fuss	with	the	dog--but	it	never	took	him	in,	he	always
saw	 through	 Clarissa.	 Not	 that	 he	 said	 anything,	 of	 course;	 just	 sat	 looking
glum.	It	was	the	way	their	quarrels	often	began.

She	 shut	 the	 door.	 At	 once	 he	 became	 extremely	 depressed.	 It	 all	 seemed
useless--going	on	being	in	love;	going	on	quarrelling;	going	on	making	it	up,
and	he	wandered	off	alone,	among	outhouses,	stables,	looking	at	the	horses.

(The	place	was	quite	a	humble	one;	the	Parrys	were	never	very	well	off;	but
there	 were	 always	 grooms	 and	 stable-boys	 about--Clarissa	 loved	 riding--and
an	old	coachman--what	was	his	name?--an	old	nurse,	old	Moody,	old	Goody,
some	such	name	they	called	her,	whom	one	was	taken	to	visit	in	a	little	room
with	lots	of	photographs,	lots	of	bird-cages.)

It	was	an	awful	evening!	He	grew	more	and	more	gloomy,	not	about	that	only;
about	 everything.	 And	 he	 couldn't	 see	 her;	 couldn't	 explain	 to	 her;	 couldn't
have	 it	 out.	 There	 were	 always	 people	 about--she'd	 go	 on	 as	 if	 nothing	 had
happened.	That	was	the	devilish	part	of	her--this	coldness,	this	woodenness,
something	very	profound	in	her,	which	he	had	felt	again	this	morning	talking
to	 her;	 an	 impenetrability.	 Yet	 Heaven	 knows	 he	 loved	 her.	 She	 had	 some
queer	power	of	fiddling	on	one's	nerves,	turning	one's	nerves	to	fiddle-strings,
yes.

He	had	gone	in	to	dinner	rather	late,	from	some	idiotic	idea	of	making	himself
felt,	and	had	sat	down	by	old	Miss	Parry--Aunt	Helena--Mr.	Parry's	sister,	who
was	supposed	to	preside.	There	she	sat	in	her	white	Cashmere	shawl,	with	her
head	against	the	window--a	formidable	old	lady,	but	kind	to	him,	for	he	had
found	her	some	rare	flower,	and	she	was	a	great	botanist,	marching	off	in	thick
boots	with	a	black	collecting-box	slung	between	her	shoulders.	He	sat	down
beside	her,	and	couldn't	speak.	Everything	seemed	to	race	past	him;	he	just	sat
there,	eating.	And	then	half-way	through	dinner	he	made	himself	look	across
at	Clarissa	for	the	first	time.	She	was	talking	to	a	young	man	on	her	right.	He
had	 a	 sudden	 revelation.	 "She	 will	 marry	 that	 man,"	 he	 said	 to	 himself.	 He
didn't	even	know	his	name.

For	 of	 course	 it	 was	 that	 afternoon,	 that	 very	 afternoon,	 that	 Dalloway	 had
come	over;	and	Clarissa	called	him	"Wickham";	that	was	the	beginning	of	it
all.	Somebody	had	brought	him	over;	and	Clarissa	got	his	name	wrong.	She
introduced	 him	 to	 everybody	 as	 Wickham.	 At	 last	 he	 said	 "My	 name	 is
Dalloway!"--that	 was	 his	 first	 view	 of	 Richard--a	 fair	 young	 man,	 rather
awkward,	sitting	on	a	deck-chair,	and	blurting	out	"My	name	is	Dalloway!"
Sally	got	hold	of	it;	always	after	that	she	called	him	"My	name	is	Dalloway!"

He	 was	 a	 prey	 to	 revelations	 at	 that	 time.	 This	 one--that	 she	 would	 marry
Dalloway--was	blinding--overwhelming	at	the	moment.	There	was	a	sort	of--
how	could	he	put	it?--a	sort	of	ease	in	her	manner	to	him;	something	maternal;
something	gentle.	They	were	talking	about	politics.	All	through	dinner	he	tried
to	hear	what	they	were	saying.

Afterwards	 he	 could	 remember	 standing	 by	 old	 Miss	 Parry's	 chair	 in	 the
drawing-room.	Clarissa	came	up,	with	her	perfect	manners,	like	a	real	hostess,
and	 wanted	 to	 introduce	 him	 to	 some	 one--spoke	 as	 if	 they	 had	 never	 met

before,	which	enraged	him.	Yet	even	then	he	admired	her	for	it.	He	admired
her	 courage;	 her	 social	 instinct;	 he	 admired	 her	 power	 of	 carrying	 things
through.	"The	perfect	hostess,"	he	said	to	her,	whereupon	she	winced	all	over.
But	 he	 meant	 her	 to	 feel	 it.	 He	 would	 have	 done	 anything	 to	 hurt	 her	 after
seeing	her	with	Dalloway.	So	she	left	him.	And	he	had	a	feeling	that	they	were
all	 gathered	 together	 in	 a	 conspiracy	 against	 him--laughing	 and	 talking--
behind	his	back.	There	he	stood	by	Miss	Parry's	chair	as	though	he	had	been
cut	out	of	wood,	he	talking	about	wild	flowers.	Never,	never	had	he	suffered
so	infernally!	He	must	have	forgotten	even	to	pretend	to	listen;	at	last	he	woke
up;	 he	 saw	 Miss	 Parry	 looking	 rather	 disturbed,	 rather	 indignant,	 with	 her
prominent	eyes	fixed.	He	almost	cried	out	that	he	couldn't	attend	because	he
was	in	Hell!	People	began	going	out	of	the	room.	He	heard	them	talking	about
fetching	cloaks;	about	its	being	cold	on	the	water,	and	so	on.	They	were	going
boating	on	the	lake	by	moonlight--one	of	Sally's	mad	ideas.	He	could	hear	her
describing	the	moon.	And	they	all	went	out.	He	was	left	quite	alone.

"Don't	 you	 want	 to	 go	 with	 them?"	 said	 Aunt	 Helena--old	 Miss	 Parry!--she
had	guessed.	And	he	turned	round	and	there	was	Clarissa	again.	She	had	come
back	to	fetch	him.	He	was	overcome	by	her	generosity--her	goodness.

"Come	along,"	she	said.	"They're	waiting."	He	had	never	felt	so	happy	in	the
whole	of	his	life!	Without	a	word	they	made	it	up.	They	walked	down	to	the
lake.	He	had	twenty	minutes	of	perfect	happiness.	Her	voice,	her	laugh,	her
dress	(something	floating,	white,	crimson),	her	spirit,	her	adventurousness;	she
made	 them	 all	 disembark	 and	 explore	 the	 island;	 she	 startled	 a	 hen;	 she
laughed;	 she	 sang.	 And	 all	 the	 time,	 he	 knew	 perfectly	 well,	 Dalloway	 was
falling	in	love	with	her;	she	was	falling	in	love	with	Dalloway;	but	it	didn't
seem	to	matter.	Nothing	mattered.	They	sat	on	the	ground	and	talked--he	and
Clarissa.	They	went	in	and	out	of	each	other's	minds	without	any	effort.	And
then	in	a	second	it	was	over.	He	said	to	himself	as	they	were	getting	into	the
boat,	"She	will	marry	that	man,"	dully,	without	any	resentment;	but	it	was	an
obvious	thing.	Dalloway	would	marry	Clarissa.

Dalloway	rowed	them	in.	He	said	nothing.	But	somehow	as	they	watched	him
start,	 jumping	 on	 to	 his	 bicycle	 to	 ride	 twenty	 miles	 through	 the	 woods,
wobbling	off	down	the	drive,	waving	his	hand	and	disappearing,	he	obviously
did	feel,	instinctively,	tremendously,	strongly,	all	that;	the	night;	the	romance;
Clarissa.	He	deserved	to	have	her.

For	himself,	he	was	absurd.	His	demands	upon	Clarissa	(he	could	see	it	now)
were	absurd.	He	asked	impossible	things.	He	made	terrible	scenes.	She	would
have	accepted	him	still,	perhaps,	if	he	had	been	less	absurd.	Sally	thought	so.
She	wrote	him	all	that	summer	long	letters;	how	they	had	talked	of	him;	how
she	 had	 praised	 him,	 how	 Clarissa	 burst	 into	 tears!	 It	 was	 an	 extraordinary

summer--all	 letters,	 scenes,	 telegrams--arriving	 at	 Bourton	 early	 in	 the
morning,	hanging	about	till	the	servants	were	up;	appalling	tête-à-têtes	 with
old	Mr.	Parry	at	breakfast;	Aunt	Helena	formidable	but	kind;	Sally	sweeping
him	off	for	talks	in	the	vegetable	garden;	Clarissa	in	bed	with	headaches.

The	final	scene,	the	terrible	scene	which	he	believed	had	mattered	more	than
anything	in	the	whole	of	his	life	(it	might	be	an	exaggeration--but	still	so	it	did
seem	now)	happened	at	three	o'clock	in	the	afternoon	of	a	very	hot	day.	It	was
a	trifle	that	led	up	to	it--Sally	at	lunch	saying	something	about	Dalloway,	and
calling	him	"My	name	is	Dalloway";	whereupon	Clarissa	suddenly	stiffened,
coloured,	in	a	way	she	had,	and	rapped	out	sharply,	"We've	had	enough	of	that
feeble	joke."	That	was	all;	but	for	him	it	was	precisely	as	if	she	had	said,	"I'm
only	amusing	myself	with	you;	I've	an	understanding	with	Richard	Dalloway."
So	he	took	it.	He	had	not	slept	for	nights.	"It's	got	to	be	finished	one	way	or
the	other,"	he	said	to	himself.	He	sent	a	note	to	her	by	Sally	asking	her	to	meet
him	 by	 the	 fountain	 at	 three.	 "Something	 very	 important	 has	 happened,"	 he
scribbled	at	the	end	of	it.

The	fountain	was	in	the	middle	of	a	little	shrubbery,	far	from	the	house,	with
shrubs	and	trees	all	round	it.	There	she	came,	even	before	the	time,	and	they
stood	 with	 the	 fountain	 between	 them,	 the	 spout	 (it	 was	 broken)	 dribbling
water	incessantly.	How	sights	fix	themselves	upon	the	mind!	For	example,	the
vivid	green	moss.

She	did	not	move.	"Tell	me	the	truth,	tell	me	the	truth,"	he	kept	on	saying.	He
felt	as	if	his	forehead	would	burst.	She	seemed	contracted,	petrified.	She	did
not	 move.	 "Tell	 me	 the	 truth,"	 he	 repeated,	 when	 suddenly	 that	 old	 man
Breitkopf	popped	his	head	in	carrying	the	Times;	stared	at	them;	gaped;	and
went	away.	They	neither	of	them	moved.	"Tell	me	the	truth,"	he	repeated.	He
felt	 that	 he	 was	 grinding	 against	 something	 physically	 hard;	 she	 was
unyielding.	She	was	like	iron,	like	flint,	rigid	up	the	backbone.	And	when	she
said,	"It's	no	use.	It's	no	use.	This	is	the	end"--after	he	had	spoken	for	hours,	it
seemed,	with	the	tears	running	down	his	cheeks--it	was	as	if	she	had	hit	him	in
the	face.	She	turned,	she	left	him,	went	away.

"Clarissa!"	 he	 cried.	 "Clarissa!"	 But	 she	 never	 came	 back.	 It	 was	 over.	 He
went	away	that	night.	He	never	saw	her	again.

	

	

It	was	awful,	he	cried,	awful,	awful!

Still,	the	sun	was	hot.	Still,	one	got	over	things.	Still,	life	had	a	way	of	adding

day	to	day.	Still,	he	thought,	yawning	and	beginning	to	take	notice--Regent's
Park	had	changed	very	little	since	he	was	a	boy,	except	for	the	squirrels--still,
presumably	 there	 were	 compensations--when	 little	 Elise	 Mitchell,	 who	 had
been	 picking	 up	 pebbles	 to	 add	 to	 the	 pebble	 collection	 which	 she	 and	 her
brother	were	making	on	the	nursery	mantelpiece,	plumped	her	handful	down
on	 the	 nurse's	 knee	 and	 scudded	 off	 again	 full	 tilt	 into	 a	 lady's	 legs.	 Peter
Walsh	laughed	out.

But	Lucrezia	Warren	Smith	was	saying	to	herself,	It's	wicked;	why	should	I
suffer?	she	was	asking,	as	she	walked	down	the	broad	path.	No;	I	can't	stand	it
any	 longer,	 she	 was	 saying,	 having	 left	 Septimus,	 who	 wasn't	 Septimus	 any
longer,	to	say	hard,	cruel,	wicked	things,	to	talk	to	himself,	to	talk	to	a	dead
man,	on	the	seat	over	there;	when	the	child	ran	full	tilt	into	her,	fell	flat,	and
burst	out	crying.

That	 was	 comforting	 rather.	 She	 stood	 her	 upright,	 dusted	 her	 frock,	 kissed
her.

But	for	herself	she	had	done	nothing	wrong;	she	had	loved	Septimus;	she	had
been	 happy;	 she	 had	 had	 a	 beautiful	 home,	 and	 there	 her	 sisters	 lived	 still,
making	hats.	Why	shouldshe	suffer?

The	child	ran	straight	back	to	its	nurse,	and	Rezia	saw	her	scolded,	comforted,
taken	up	by	the	nurse	who	put	down	her	knitting,	and	the	kind-looking	man
gave	 her	 his	 watch	 to	 blow	 open	 to	 comfort	 her--but	 why	 should	 she	 be
exposed?	Why	not	left	in	Milan?	Why	tortured?	Why?

Slightly	 waved	 by	 tears	 the	 broad	 path,	 the	 nurse,	 the	 man	 in	 grey,	 the
perambulator,	 rose	 and	 fell	 before	 her	 eyes.	 To	 be	 rocked	 by	 this	 malignant
torturer	was	her	lot.	But	why?	She	was	like	a	bird	sheltering	under	the	thin
hollow	of	a	leaf,	who	blinks	at	the	sun	when	the	leaf	moves;	starts	at	the	crack
of	a	dry	twig.	She	was	exposed;	she	was	surrounded	by	the	enormous	trees,
vast	 clouds	 of	 an	 indifferent	 world,	 exposed;	 tortured;	 and	 why	 should	 she
suffer?	Why?

She	frowned;	she	stamped	her	foot.	She	must	go	back	again	to	Septimus	since
it	was	almost	time	for	them	to	be	going	to	Sir	William	Bradshaw.	She	must	go
back	and	tell	him,	go	back	to	him	sitting	there	on	the	green	chair	under	the
tree,	talking	to	himself,	or	to	that	dead	man	Evans,	whom	she	had	only	seen
once	for	a	moment	in	the	shop.	He	had	seemed	a	nice	quiet	man;	a	great	friend
of	Septimus's,	and	he	had	been	killed	in	the	War.	But	such	things	happen	to
every	one.	Every	one	has	friends	who	were	killed	in	the	War.	Every	one	gives
up	something	when	they	marry.	She	had	given	up	her	home.	She	had	come	to
live	 here,	 in	 this	 awful	 city.	 But	 Septimus	 let	 himself	 think	 about	 horrible

things,	as	she	could	too,	if	she	tried.	He	had	grown	stranger	and	stranger.	He
said	 people	 were	 talking	 behind	 the	 bedroom	 walls.	 Mrs.	 Filmer	 thought	 it
odd.	He	saw	things	too--he	had	seen	an	old	woman's	head	in	the	middle	of	a
fern.	Yet	he	could	be	happy	when	he	chose.	They	went	to	Hampton	Court	on
top	 of	 a	 bus,	 and	 they	 were	 perfectly	 happy.	 All	 the	 little	 red	 and	 yellow
flowers	 were	 out	 on	 the	 grass,	 like	 floating	 lamps	 he	 said,	 and	 talked	 and
chattered	and	laughed,	making	up	stories.	Suddenly	he	said,	"Now	we	will	kill
ourselves,"	when	they	were	standing	by	the	river,	and	he	looked	at	it	with	a
look	which	she	had	seen	in	his	eyes	when	a	train	went	by,	or	an	omnibus--a
look	as	if	something	fascinated	him;	and	she	felt	he	was	going	from	her	and
she	caught	him	by	the	arm.	But	going	home	he	was	perfectly	quiet--perfectly
reasonable.	 He	 would	 argue	 with	 her	 about	 killing	 themselves;	 and	 explain
how	 wicked	 people	 were;	 how	 he	 could	 see	 them	 making	 up	 lies	 as	 they
passed	in	the	street.	He	knew	all	their	thoughts,	he	said;	he	knew	everything.
He	knew	the	meaning	of	the	world,	he	said.

Then	when	they	got	back	he	could	hardly	walk.	He	lay	on	the	sofa	and	made
her	hold	his	hand	to	prevent	him	from	falling	down,	down,	he	cried,	into	the
flames!	and	saw	faces	laughing	at	him,	calling	him	horrible	disgusting	names,
from	 the	 walls,	 and	 hands	 pointing	 round	 the	 screen.	 Yet	 they	 were	 quite
alone.	But	he	began	to	talk	aloud,	answering	people,	arguing,	laughing,	crying,
getting	 very	 excited	 and	 making	 her	 write	 things	 down.	 Perfect	 nonsense	 it
was;	about	death;	about	Miss	Isabel	Pole.	She	could	stand	it	no	longer.	She
would	go	back.

She	 was	 close	 to	 him	 now,	 could	 see	 him	 staring	 at	 the	 sky,	 muttering,
clasping	 his	 hands.	 Yet	 Dr.	 Holmes	 said	 there	 was	 nothing	 the	 matter	 with
him.	What	then	had	happened--why	had	he	gone,	then,	why,	when	she	sat	by
him,	 did	 he	 start,	 frown	 at	 her,	 move	 away,	 and	 point	 at	 her	 hand,	 take	 her
hand,	look	at	it	terrified?

Was	it	that	she	had	taken	off	her	wedding	ring?	"My	hand	has	grown	so	thin,"
she	said.	"I	have	put	it	in	my	purse,"	she	told	him.

He	dropped	her	hand.	Their	marriage	was	over,	he	thought,	with	agony,	with
relief.	The	rope	was	cut;	he	mounted;	he	was	free,	as	it	was	decreed	that	he,
Septimus,	the	lord	of	men,	should	be	free;	alone	(since	his	wife	had	thrown
away	 her	 wedding	 ring;	 since	 she	 had	 left	 him),	 he,	 Septimus,	 was	 alone,
called	 forth	 in	 advance	 of	 the	 mass	 of	 men	 to	 hear	 the	 truth,	 to	 learn	 the
meaning,	which	now	at	last,	after	all	the	toils	of	civilisation--Greeks,	Romans,
Shakespeare,	 Darwin,	 and	 now	 himself--was	 to	 be	 given	 whole	 to.	 .	 .	 .	 "To
whom?"	 he	 asked	 aloud.	 "To	 the	 Prime	 Minister,"	 the	 voices	 which	 rustled
above	his	head	replied.	The	supreme	secret	must	be	told	to	the	Cabinet;	first
that	 trees	 are	 alive;	 next	 there	 is	 no	 crime;	 next	 love,	 universal	 love,	 he

muttered,	 gasping,	 trembling,	 painfully	 drawing	 out	 these	 profound	 truths
which	needed,	so	deep	were	they,	so	difficult,	an	immense	effort	to	speak	out,
but	the	world	was	entirely	changed	by	them	for	ever.

No	crime;	love;	he	repeated,	fumbling	for	his	card	and	pencil,	when	a	Skye
terrier	snuffed	his	trousers	and	he	started	in	an	agony	of	fear.	It	was	turning
into	a	man!	He	could	not	watch	it	happen!	It	was	horrible,	terrible	to	see	a	dog
become	a	man!	At	once	the	dog	trotted	away.

Heaven	 was	 divinely	 merciful,	 infinitely	 benignant.	 It	 spared	 him,	 pardoned
his	 weakness.	 But	 what	 was	 the	 scientific	 explanation	 (for	 one	 must	 be
scientific	 above	 all	 things)?	 Why	 could	 he	 see	 through	 bodies,	 see	 into	 the
future,	 when	 dogs	 will	 become	 men?	 It	 was	 the	 heat	 wave	 presumably,
operating	 upon	 a	 brain	 made	 sensitive	 by	 eons	 of	 evolution.	 Scientifically
speaking,	the	flesh	was	melted	off	the	world.	His	body	was	macerated	until
only	the	nerve	fibres	were	left.	It	was	spread	like	a	veil	upon	a	rock.

He	lay	back	in	his	chair,	exhausted	but	upheld.	He	lay	resting,	waiting,	before
he	again	interpreted,	with	effort,	with	agony,	to	mankind.	He	lay	very	high,	on
the	 back	 of	 the	 world.	 The	 earth	 thrilled	 beneath	 him.	 Red	 flowers	 grew
through	his	flesh;	their	stiff	leaves	rustled	by	his	head.	Music	began	clanging
against	the	rocks	up	here.	It	is	a	motor	horn	down	in	the	street,	he	muttered;
but	up	here	it	cannoned	from	rock	to	rock,	divided,	met	in	shocks	of	sound
which	rose	in	smooth	columns	(that	music	should	be	visible	was	a	discovery)
and	 became	 an	 anthem,	 an	 anthem	 twined	 round	 now	 by	 a	 shepherd	 boy's
piping	 (That's	 an	 old	 man	 playing	 a	 penny	 whistle	 by	 the	 public-house,	 he
muttered)	which,	as	the	boy	stood	still	came	bubbling	from	his	pipe,	and	then,
as	 he	 climbed	 higher,	 made	 its	 exquisite	 plaint	 while	 the	 traffic	 passed
beneath.	This	boy's	elegy	is	played	among	the	traffic,	thought	Septimus.	Now
he	withdraws	up	into	the	snows,	and	roses	hang	about	him--the	thick	red	roses
which	grow	on	my	bedroom	wall,	he	reminded	himself.	The	music	stopped.
He	has	his	penny,	he	reasoned	it	out,	and	has	gone	on	to	the	next	public-house.

But	he	himself	remained	high	on	his	rock,	like	a	drowned	sailor	on	a	rock.	I
leant	over	the	edge	of	the	boat	and	fell	down,	he	thought.	I	went	under	the	sea.
I	have	been	dead,	and	yet	am	now	alive,	but	let	me	rest	still;	he	begged	(he
was	talking	to	himself	again--it	was	awful,	awful!);	and	as,	before	waking,	the
voices	of	birds	and	the	sound	of	wheels	chime	and	chatter	in	a	queer	harmony,
grow	louder	and	louder	and	the	sleeper	feels	himself	drawing	to	the	shores	of
life,	 so	 he	 felt	 himself	 drawing	 towards	 life,	 the	 sun	 growing	 hotter,	 cries
sounding	louder,	something	tremendous	about	to	happen.

He	had	only	to	open	his	eyes;	but	a	weight	was	on	them;	a	fear.	He	strained;	he
pushed;	 he	 looked;	 he	 saw	 Regent's	 Park	 before	 him.	 Long	 streamers	 of

sunlight	 fawned	 at	 his	 feet.	 The	 trees	 waved,	 brandished.	 We	 welcome,	 the
world	seemed	to	say;	we	accept;	we	create.	Beauty,	the	world	seemed	to	say.
And	as	if	to	prove	it	(scientifically)	wherever	he	looked	at	the	houses,	at	the
railings,	at	the	antelopes	stretching	over	the	palings,	beauty	sprang	instantly.
To	watch	a	leaf	quivering	in	the	rush	of	air	was	an	exquisite	joy.	Up	in	the	sky
swallows	 swooping,	 swerving,	 flinging	 themselves	 in	 and	 out,	 round	 and
round,	yet	always	with	perfect	control	as	if	elastics	held	them;	and	the	flies
rising	and	falling;	and	the	sun	spotting	now	this	leaf,	now	that,	in	mockery,
dazzling	it	with	soft	gold	in	pure	good	temper;	and	now	and	again	some	chime
(it	 might	 be	 a	 motor	 horn)	 tinkling	 divinely	 on	 the	 grass	 stalks--all	 of	 this,
calm	and	reasonable	as	it	was,	made	out	of	ordinary	things	as	it	was,	was	the
truth	now;	beauty,	that	was	the	truth	now.	Beauty	was	everywhere.

"It	is	time,"	said	Rezia.

The	word	"time"	split	its	husk;	poured	its	riches	over	him;	and	from	his	lips
fell	 like	 shells,	 like	 shavings	 from	 a	 plane,	 without	 his	 making	 them,	 hard,
white,	imperishable	words,	and	flew	to	attach	themselves	to	their	places	in	an
ode	to	Time;	an	immortal	ode	to	Time.	He	sang.	Evans	answered	from	behind
the	 tree.	 The	 dead	 were	 in	 Thessaly,	 Evans	 sang,	 among	 the	 orchids.	 There
they	waited	till	the	War	was	over,	and	now	the	dead,	now	Evans	himself--

"For	God's	sake	don't	come!"	Septimus	cried	out.	For	he	could	not	look	upon
the	dead.

But	the	branches	parted.	A	man	in	grey	was	actually	walking	towards	them.	It
was	Evans!	But	no	mud	was	on	him;	no	wounds;	he	was	not	changed.	I	must
tell	the	whole	world,	Septimus	cried,	raising	his	hand	(as	the	dead	man	in	the
grey	 suit	 came	 nearer),	 raising	 his	 hand	 like	 some	 colossal	 figure	 who	 has
lamented	the	fate	of	man	for	ages	in	the	desert	alone	with	his	hands	pressed	to
his	 forehead,	 furrows	 of	 despair	 on	 his	 cheeks,	 and	 now	 sees	 light	 on	 the
desert's	edge	which	broadens	and	strikes	the	iron-black	figure	(and	Septimus
half	rose	from	his	chair),	and	with	legions	of	men	prostrate	behind	him	he,	the
giant	mourner,	receives	for	one	moment	on	his	face	the	whole--

"But	I	am	so	unhappy,	Septimus,"	said	Rezia	trying	to	make	him	sit	down.

The	millions	lamented;	for	ages	they	had	sorrowed.	He	would	turn	round,	he
would	tell	them	in	a	few	moments,	only	a	few	moments	more,	of	this	relief,	of
this	joy,	of	this	astonishing	revelation--

"The	time,	Septimus,"	Rezia	repeated.	"What	is	the	time?"

He	was	talking,	he	was	starting,	this	man	must	notice	him.	He	was	looking	at
them.

"I	will	tell	you	the	time,"	said	Septimus,	very	slowly,	very	drowsily,	smiling
mysteriously.	As	he	sat	smiling	at	the	dead	man	in	the	grey	suit	the	quarter
struck--the	quarter	to	twelve.

And	that	is	being	young,	Peter	Walsh	thought	as	he	passed	them.	To	be	having
an	awful	scene--the	poor	girl	looked	absolutely	desperate--in	the	middle	of	the
morning.	But	what	was	it	about,	he	wondered,	what	had	the	young	man	in	the
overcoat	been	saying	to	her	to	make	her	look	like	that;	what	awful	fix	had	they
got	 themselves	 into,	 both	 to	 look	 so	 desperate	 as	 that	 on	 a	 fine	 summer
morning?	The	amusing	thing	about	coming	back	to	England,	after	five	years,
was	 the	 way	 it	 made,	 anyhow	 the	 first	 days,	 things	 stand	 out	 as	 if	 one	 had
never	seen	them	before;	lovers	squabbling	under	a	tree;	the	domestic	family
life	of	the	parks.	Never	had	he	seen	London	look	so	enchanting--the	softness
of	 the	 distances;	 the	 richness;	 the	 greenness;	 the	 civilisation,	 after	 India,	 he
thought,	strolling	across	the	grass.

This	susceptibility	to	impressions	had	been	his	undoing	no	doubt.	Still	at	his
age	he	had,	like	a	boy	or	a	girl	even,	these	alternations	of	mood;	good	days,
bad	 days,	 for	 no	 reason	 whatever,	 happiness	 from	 a	 pretty	 face,	 downright
misery	at	the	sight	of	a	frump.	After	India	of	course	one	fell	in	love	with	every
woman	one	met.	There	was	a	freshness	about	them;	even	the	poorest	dressed
better	than	five	years	ago	surely;	and	to	his	eye	the	fashions	had	never	been	so
becoming;	 the	 long	 black	 cloaks;	 the	 slimness;	 the	 elegance;	 and	 then	 the
delicious	and	apparently	universal	habit	of	paint.	Every	woman,	even	the	most
respectable,	 had	 roses	 blooming	 under	 glass;	 lips	 cut	 with	 a	 knife;	 curls	 of
Indian	 ink;	 there	 was	 design,	 art,	 everywhere;	 a	 change	 of	 some	 sort	 had
undoubtedly	taken	place.	What	did	the	young	people	think	about?	Peter	Walsh
asked	himself.

Those	 five	 years--1918	 to	 1923--had	 been,	 he	 suspected,	 somehow	 very
important.	 People	 looked	 different.	 Newspapers	 seemed	 different.	 Now	 for
instance	 there	 was	 a	 man	 writing	 quite	 openly	 in	 one	 of	 the	 respectable
weeklies	 about	 water-closets.	 That	 you	 couldn't	 have	 done	 ten	 years	 ago--
written	quite	openly	about	water-closets	in	a	respectable	weekly.	And	then	this
taking	 out	 a	 stick	 of	 rouge,	 or	 a	 powder-puff	 and	 making	 up	 in	 public.	 On
board	ship	coming	home	there	were	lots	of	young	men	and	girls--Betty	and
Bertie	he	remembered	in	particular--carrying	on	quite	openly;	the	old	mother
sitting	 and	 watching	 them	 with	 her	 knitting,	 cool	 as	 a	 cucumber.	 The	 girl
would	stand	still	and	powder	her	nose	in	front	of	every	one.	And	they	weren't
engaged;	just	having	a	good	time;	no	feelings	hurt	on	either	side.	As	hard	as
nails	she	was--Betty	What'shername--;	but	a	thorough	good	sort.	She	would
make	a	very	good	wife	at	thirty--she	would	marry	when	it	suited	her	to	marry;
marry	some	rich	man	and	live	in	a	large	house	near	Manchester.

Who	was	it	now	who	had	done	that?	Peter	Walsh	asked	himself,	turning	into
the	 Broad	 Walk,--married	 a	 rich	 man	 and	 lived	 in	 a	 large	 house	 near
Manchester?	Somebody	who	had	written	him	a	long,	gushing	letter	quite	lately
about	"blue	hydrangeas."	It	was	seeing	blue	hydrangeas	that	made	her	think	of
him	 and	 the	 old	 days--Sally	 Seton,	 of	 course!	 It	 was	 Sally	 Seton--the	 last
person	in	the	world	one	would	have	expected	to	marry	a	rich	man	and	live	in	a
large	house	near	Manchester,	the	wild,	the	daring,	the	romantic	Sally!

But	 of	 all	 that	 ancient	 lot,	 Clarissa's	 friends--Whitbreads,	 Kinderleys,
Cunninghams,	Kinloch-Jones's--Sally	was	probably	the	best.	She	tried	to	get
hold	 of	 things	 by	 the	 right	 end	 anyhow.	 She	 saw	 through	 Hugh	 Whitbread
anyhow--the	admirable	Hugh--when	Clarissa	and	the	rest	were	at	his	feet.

"The	Whitbreads?"	he	could	hear	her	saying.	"Who	are	the	Whitbreads?	Coal
merchants.	Respectable	tradespeople."

Hugh	 she	 detested	 for	 some	 reason.	 He	 thought	 of	 nothing	 but	 his	 own
appearance,	she	said.	He	ought	to	have	been	a	Duke.	He	would	be	certain	to
marry	 one	 of	 the	 Royal	 Princesses.	 And	 of	 course	 Hugh	 had	 the	 most
extraordinary,	 the	 most	 natural,	 the	 most	 sublime	 respect	 for	 the	 British
aristocracy	of	any	human	being	he	had	ever	come	across.	Even	Clarissa	had	to
own	that.	Oh,	but	he	was	such	a	dear,	so	unselfish,	gave	up	shooting	to	please
his	old	mother--remembered	his	aunts'	birthdays,	and	so	on.

Sally,	to	do	her	justice,	saw	through	all	that.	One	of	the	things	he	remembered
best	was	an	argument	one	Sunday	morning	at	Bourton	about	women's	rights
(that	antediluvian	topic),	when	Sally	suddenly	lost	her	temper,	flared	up,	and
told	Hugh	that	he	represented	all	that	was	most	detestable	in	British	middle-
class	 life.	 She	 told	 him	 that	 she	 considered	 him	 responsible	 for	 the	 state	 of
"those	 poor	 girls	 in	 Piccadilly"--Hugh,	 the	 perfect	 gentleman,	 poor	 Hugh!--
never	did	a	man	look	more	horrified!	She	did	it	on	purpose	she	said	afterwards
(for	 they	 used	 to	 get	 together	 in	 the	 vegetable	 garden	 and	 compare	 notes).
"He's	read	nothing,	thought	nothing,	felt	nothing,"	he	could	hear	her	saying	in
that	very	emphatic	voice	which	carried	so	much	farther	than	she	knew.	The
stable	 boys	 had	 more	 life	 in	 them	 than	 Hugh,	 she	 said.	 He	 was	 a	 perfect
specimen	of	the	public	school	type,	she	said.	No	country	but	England	could
have	produced	him.	She	was	really	spiteful,	for	some	reason;	had	some	grudge
against	him.	Something	had	happened--he	forgot	what--in	the	smoking-room.
He	had	insulted	her--kissed	her?	Incredible!	Nobody	believed	a	word	against
Hugh	 of	 course.	 Who	 could?	 Kissing	 Sally	 in	 the	 smoking-room!	 If	 it	 had
been	some	Honourable	Edith	or	Lady	Violet,	perhaps;	but	not	that	ragamuffin
Sally	 without	 a	 penny	 to	 her	 name,	 and	 a	 father	 or	 a	 mother	 gambling	 at
Monte	 Carlo.	 For	 of	 all	 the	 people	 he	 had	 ever	 met	 Hugh	 was	 the	 greatest
snob--the	most	obsequious--no,	he	didn't	cringe	exactly.	He	was	too	much	of	a

prig	 for	 that.	 A	 first-rate	 valet	 was	 the	 obvious	 comparison--somebody	 who
walked	 behind	 carrying	 suit	 cases;	 could	 be	 trusted	 to	 send	 telegrams--
indispensable	 to	 hostesses.	 And	 he'd	 found	 his	 job--married	 his	 Honourable
Evelyn;	got	some	little	post	at	Court,	looked	after	the	King's	cellars,	polished
the	Imperial	shoe-buckles,	went	about	in	knee-breeches	and	lace	ruffles.	How
remorseless	life	is!	A	little	job	at	Court!

He	had	married	this	lady,	the	Honourable	Evelyn,	and	they	lived	hereabouts,
so	he	thought	(looking	at	the	pompous	houses	overlooking	the	Park),	for	he
had	 lunched	 there	 once	 in	 a	 house	 which	 had,	 like	 all	 Hugh's	 possessions,
something	that	no	other	house	could	possibly	have--linen	cupboards	it	might
have	been.	You	had	to	go	and	look	at	them--you	had	to	spend	a	great	deal	of
time	always	admiring	whatever	it	was--linen	cupboards,	pillow-cases,	old	oak
furniture,	pictures,	which	Hugh	had	picked	up	for	an	old	song.	But	Mrs.	Hugh
sometimes	 gave	 the	 show	 away.	 She	 was	 one	 of	 those	 obscure	 mouse-like
little	women	who	admire	big	men.	She	was	almost	negligible.	Then	suddenly
she	 would	 say	 something	 quite	 unexpected--something	 sharp.	 She	 had	 the
relics	of	the	grand	manner	perhaps.	The	steam	coal	was	a	little	too	strong	for
her--it	 made	 the	 atmosphere	 thick.	 And	 so	 there	 they	 lived,	 with	 their	 linen
cupboards	and	their	old	masters	and	their	pillow-cases	fringed	with	real	lace	at
the	 rate	 of	 five	 or	 ten	 thousand	 a	 year	 presumably,	 while	 he,	 who	 was	 two
years	older	than	Hugh,	cadged	for	a	job.

At	fifty-three	he	had	to	come	and	ask	them	to	put	him	into	some	secretary's
office,	to	find	him	some	usher's	job	teaching	little	boys	Latin,	at	the	beck	and
call	of	some	mandarin	in	an	office,	something	that	brought	in	five	hundred	a
year;	for	if	he	married	Daisy,	even	with	his	pension,	they	could	never	do	on
less.	Whitbread	could	do	it	presumably;	or	Dalloway.	He	didn't	mind	what	he
asked	Dalloway.	He	was	a	thorough	good	sort;	a	bit	limited;	a	bit	thick	in	the
head;	yes;	but	a	thorough	good	sort.	Whatever	he	took	up	he	did	in	the	same
matter-of-fact	sensible	way;	without	a	touch	of	imagination,	without	a	spark	of
brilliancy,	 but	 with	 the	 inexplicable	 niceness	 of	 his	 type.	 He	 ought	 to	 have
been	a	country	gentleman--he	was	wasted	on	politics.	He	was	at	his	best	out	of
doors,	with	horses	and	dogs--how	good	he	was,	for	instance,	when	that	great
shaggy	dog	of	Clarissa's	got	caught	in	a	trap	and	had	its	paw	half	torn	off,	and
Clarissa	 turned	 faint	 and	 Dalloway	 did	 the	 whole	 thing;	 bandaged,	 made
splints;	told	Clarissa	not	to	be	a	fool.	That	was	what	she	liked	him	for	perhaps-
-that	was	what	she	needed.	"Now,	my	dear,	don't	be	a	fool.	Hold	this--fetch
that,"	all	the	time	talking	to	the	dog	as	if	it	were	a	human	being.

But	how	could	she	swallow	all	that	stuff	about	poetry?	How	could	she	let	him
hold	forth	about	Shakespeare?	Seriously	and	solemnly	Richard	Dalloway	got
on	 his	 hind	 legs	 and	 said	 that	 no	 decent	 man	 ought	 to	 read	 Shakespeare's

sonnets	because	it	was	like	listening	at	keyholes	(besides	the	relationship	was
not	one	that	he	approved).	No	decent	man	ought	to	let	his	wife	visit	a	deceased
wife's	 sister.	 Incredible!	 The	 only	 thing	 to	 do	 was	 to	 pelt	 him	 with	 sugared
almonds--it	was	at	dinner.	But	Clarissa	sucked	it	all	in;	thought	it	so	honest	of
him;	so	independent	of	him;	Heaven	knows	if	she	didn't	think	him	the	most
original	mind	she'd	ever	met!

That	 was	 one	 of	 the	 bonds	 between	 Sally	 and	 himself.	 There	 was	 a	 garden
where	 they	 used	 to	 walk,	 a	 walled-in	 place,	 with	 rose-bushes	 and	 giant
cauliflowers--he	could	remember	Sally	tearing	off	a	rose,	stopping	to	exclaim
at	the	beauty	of	the	cabbage	leaves	in	the	moonlight	(it	was	extraordinary	how
vividly	it	all	came	back	to	him,	things	he	hadn't	thought	of	for	years,)	while
she	implored	him,	half	laughing	of	course,	to	carry	off	Clarissa,	to	save	her
from	the	Hughs	and	the	Dalloways	and	all	the	other	"perfect	gentlemen"	who
would	"stifle	her	soul"	(she	wrote	reams	of	poetry	in	those	days),	make	a	mere
hostess	 of	 her,	 encourage	 her	 worldliness.	 But	 one	 must	 do	 Clarissa	 justice.
She	wasn't	going	to	marry	Hugh	anyhow.	She	had	a	perfectly	clear	notion	of
what	she	wanted.	Her	emotions	were	all	on	the	surface.	Beneath,	she	was	very
shrewd--a	far	better	judge	of	character	than	Sally,	for	instance,	and	with	it	all,
purely	feminine;	with	that	extraordinary	gift,	that	woman's	gift,	of	making	a
world	of	her	own	wherever	she	happened	to	be.	She	came	into	a	room;	she
stood,	as	he	had	often	seen	her,	in	a	doorway	with	lots	of	people	round	her.
But	it	was	Clarissa	one	remembered.	Not	that	she	was	striking;	not	beautiful	at
all;	there	was	nothing	picturesque	about	her;	she	never	said	anything	specially
clever;	there	she	was,	however;	there	she	was.

No,	no,	no!	He	was	not	in	love	with	her	any	more!	He	only	felt,	after	seeing
her	 that	 morning,	 among	 her	 scissors	 and	 silks,	 making	 ready	 for	 the	 party,
unable	to	get	away	from	the	thought	of	her;	she	kept	coming	back	and	back
like	a	sleeper	jolting	against	him	in	a	railway	carriage;	which	was	not	being	in
love,	of	course;	it	was	thinking	of	her,	criticising	her,	starting	again,	after	thirty
years,	trying	to	explain	her.	The	obvious	thing	to	say	of	her	was	that	she	was
worldly;	 cared	 too	 much	 for	 rank	 and	 society	 and	 getting	 on	 in	 the	 world--
which	was	true	in	a	sense;	she	had	admitted	it	to	him.	(You	could	always	get
her	to	own	up	if	you	took	the	trouble;	she	was	honest.)	What	she	would	say
was	that	she	hated	frumps,	fogies,	failures,	like	himself	presumably;	thought
people	had	no	right	to	slouch	about	with	their	hands	in	their	pockets;	must	do
something,	be	something;	and	these	great	swells,	these	Duchesses,	these	hoary
old	Countesses	one	met	in	her	drawing-room,	unspeakably	remote	as	he	felt
them	to	be	from	anything	that	mattered	a	straw,	stood	for	something	real	to
her.	 Lady	 Bexborough,	 she	 said	 once,	 held	 herself	 upright	 (so	 did	 Clarissa
herself;	she	never	lounged	in	any	sense	of	the	word;	she	was	straight	as	a	dart,
a	little	rigid	in	fact).	She	said	they	had	a	kind	of	courage	which	the	older	she

grew	the	more	she	respected.	In	all	this	there	was	a	great	deal	of	Dalloway,	of
course;	 a	 great	 deal	 of	 the	 public-spirited,	 British	 Empire,	 tariff-reform,
governing-class	spirit,	which	had	grown	on	her,	as	it	tends	to	do.	With	twice
his	 wits,	 she	 had	 to	 see	 things	 through	 his	 eyes--one	 of	 the	 tragedies	 of
married	life.	With	a	mind	of	her	own,	she	must	always	be	quoting	Richard--as
if	one	couldn't	know	to	a	tittle	what	Richard	thought	by	reading	the	Morning
Post	of	a	morning!	These	parties	for	example	were	all	for	him,	or	for	her	idea
of	him	(to	do	Richard	justice	he	would	have	been	happier	farming	in	Norfolk).
She	made	her	drawing-room	a	sort	of	meeting-place;	she	had	a	genius	for	it.
Over	and	over	again	he	had	seen	her	take	some	raw	youth,	twist	him,	turn	him,
wake	him	up;	set	him	going.	Infinite	numbers	of	dull	people	conglomerated
round	 her	 of	 course.	 But	 odd	 unexpected	 people	 turned	 up;	 an	 artist
sometimes;	sometimes	a	writer;	queer	fish	in	that	atmosphere.	And	behind	it
all	was	that	network	of	visiting,	leaving	cards,	being	kind	to	people;	running
about	with	bunches	of	flowers,	little	presents;	So-and-so	was	going	to	France--
must	 have	 an	 air-cushion;	 a	 real	 drain	 on	 her	 strength;	 all	 that	 interminable
traffic	that	women	of	her	sort	keep	up;	but	she	did	it	genuinely,	from	a	natural
instinct.

Oddly	enough,	she	was	one	of	the	most	thoroughgoing	sceptics	he	had	ever
met,	and	possibly	(this	was	a	theory	he	used	to	make	up	to	account	for	her,	so
transparent	 in	 some	 ways,	 so	 inscrutable	 in	 others),	 possibly	 she	 said	 to
herself,	 As	 we	 are	 a	 doomed	 race,	 chained	 to	 a	 sinking	 ship	 (her	 favourite
reading	as	a	girl	was	Huxley	and	Tyndall,	and	they	were	fond	of	these	nautical
metaphors),	as	the	whole	thing	is	a	bad	joke,	let	us,	at	any	rate,	do	our	part;
mitigate	 the	 sufferings	 of	 our	 fellow-prisoners	 (Huxley	 again);	 decorate	 the
dungeon	 with	 flowers	 and	 air-cushions;	 be	 as	 decent	 as	 we	 possibly	 can.
Those	ruffians,	the	Gods,	shan't	have	it	all	their	own	way,--her	notion	being
that	 the	 Gods,	 who	 never	 lost	 a	 chance	 of	 hurting,	 thwarting	 and	 spoiling
human	lives	were	seriously	put	out	if,	all	the	same,	you	behaved	like	a	lady.
That	phase	came	directly	after	Sylvia's	death--that	horrible	affair.	To	see	your
own	sister	killed	by	a	falling	tree	(all	Justin	Parry's	fault--all	his	carelessness)
before	your	very	eyes,	a	girl	too	on	the	verge	of	life,	the	most	gifted	of	them,
Clarissa	 always	 said,	 was	 enough	 to	 turn	 one	 bitter.	 Later	 she	 wasn't	 so
positive	perhaps;	she	thought	there	were	no	Gods;	no	one	was	to	blame;	and	so
she	evolved	this	atheist's	religion	of	doing	good	for	the	sake	of	goodness.

And	of	course	she	enjoyed	life	immensely.	It	was	her	nature	to	enjoy	(though
goodness	only	knows,	she	had	her	reserves;	it	was	a	mere	sketch,	he	often	felt,
that	even	he,	after	all	these	years,	could	make	of	Clarissa).	Anyhow	there	was
no	bitterness	in	her;	none	of	that	sense	of	moral	virtue	which	is	so	repulsive	in
good	women.	She	enjoyed	practically	everything.	If	you	walked	with	her	in
Hyde	 Park	 now	 it	 was	 a	 bed	 of	 tulips,	 now	 a	 child	 in	 a	 perambulator,	 now

some	absurd	little	drama	she	made	up	on	the	spur	of	the	moment.	(Very	likely,
she	would	have	talked	to	those	lovers,	if	she	had	thought	them	unhappy.)	She
had	 a	 sense	 of	 comedy	 that	 was	 really	 exquisite,	 but	 she	 needed	 people,
always	people,	to	bring	it	out,	with	the	inevitable	result	that	she	frittered	her
time	 away,	 lunching,	 dining,	 giving	 these	 incessant	 parties	 of	 hers,	 talking
nonsense,	 sayings	 things	 she	 didn't	 mean,	 blunting	 the	 edge	 of	 her	 mind,
losing	her	discrimination.	There	she	would	sit	at	the	head	of	the	table	taking
infinite	 pains	 with	 some	 old	 buffer	 who	 might	 be	 useful	 to	 Dalloway--they
knew	the	most	appalling	bores	in	Europe--or	in	came	Elizabeth	and	everything
must	give	way	to	her.	She	was	at	a	High	School,	at	the	inarticulate	stage	last
time	he	was	over,	a	round-eyed,	pale-faced	girl,	with	nothing	of	her	mother	in
her,	a	silent	stolid	creature,	who	took	it	all	as	a	matter	of	course,	let	her	mother
make	a	fuss	of	her,	and	then	said	"May	I	go	now?"	like	a	child	of	four;	going
off,	 Clarissa	 explained,	 with	 that	 mixture	 of	 amusement	 and	 pride	 which
Dalloway	himself	seemed	to	rouse	in	her,	to	play	hockey.	And	now	Elizabeth
was	 "out,"	 presumably;	 thought	 him	 an	 old	 fogy,	 laughed	 at	 her	 mother's
friends.	 Ah	 well,	 so	 be	 it.	 The	 compensation	 of	 growing	 old,	 Peter	 Walsh
thought,	coming	out	of	Regent's	Park,	and	holding	his	hat	in	hand,	was	simply
this;	that	the	passions	remain	as	strong	as	ever,	but	one	has	gained--at	last!--
the	power	which	adds	the	supreme	flavour	to	existence,--the	power	of	taking
hold	of	experience,	of	turning	it	round,	slowly,	in	the	light.

A	terrible	confession	it	was	(he	put	his	hat	on	again),	but	now,	at	the	age	of
fifty-three	one	scarcely	needed	people	any	more.	Life	itself,	every	moment	of
it,	every	drop	of	it,	here,	this	instant,	now,	in	the	sun,	in	Regent's	Park,	was
enough.	Too	much	indeed.	A	whole	lifetime	was	too	short	to	bring	out,	now
that	 one	 had	 acquired	 the	 power,	 the	 full	 flavour;	 to	 extract	 every	 ounce	 of
pleasure,	every	shade	of	meaning;	which	both	were	so	much	more	solid	than
they	used	to	be,	so	much	less	personal.	It	was	impossible	that	he	should	ever
suffer	again	as	Clarissa	had	made	him	suffer.	For	hours	at	a	time	(pray	God
that	one	might	say	these	things	without	being	overheard!),	for	hours	and	days
he	never	thought	of	Daisy.

thing--the	

Could	 it	 be	 that	 he	 was	 in	 love	 with	 her	 then,	 remembering	 the	 misery,	 the
torture,	 the	 extraordinary	 passion	 of	 those	 days?	 It	 was	 a	 different	 thing
altogether--a	 much	 pleasanter	
that
now	she	was	in	love	with	him.	And	that	perhaps	was	the	reason	why,	when	the
ship	actually	sailed,	he	felt	an	extraordinary	relief,	wanted	nothing	so	much	as
to	be	alone;	was	annoyed	to	find	all	her	little	attentions--cigars,	notes,	a	rug	for
the	voyage--in	his	cabin.	Every	one	if	they	were	honest	would	say	the	same;
one	doesn't	want	people	after	fifty;	one	doesn't	want	to	go	on	telling	women
they	are	pretty;	that's	what	most	men	of	fifty	would	say,	Peter	Walsh	thought,
if	they	were	honest.

truth	 being,	 of	 course,	

But	 then	 these	 astonishing	 accesses	 of	 emotion--bursting	 into	 tears	 this
morning,	what	was	all	that	about?	What	could	Clarissa	have	thought	of	him?
thought	him	a	fool	presumably,	not	for	the	first	time.	It	was	jealousy	that	was
at	the	bottom	of	it--jealousy	which	survives	every	other	passion	of	mankind,
Peter	Walsh	thought,	holding	his	pocket-knife	at	arm's	length.	She	had	been
meeting	Major	Orde,	Daisy	said	in	her	last	letter;	said	it	on	purpose	he	knew;
said	it	to	make	him	jealous;	he	could	see	her	wrinkling	her	forehead	as	she
wrote,	 wondering	 what	 she	 could	 say	 to	 hurt	 him;	 and	 yet	 it	 made	 no
difference;	he	was	furious!	All	this	pother	of	coming	to	England	and	seeing
lawyers	wasn't	to	marry	her,	but	to	prevent	her	from	marrying	anybody	else.
That	 was	 what	 tortured	 him,	 that	 was	 what	 came	 over	 him	 when	 he	 saw
Clarissa	so	calm,	so	cold,	so	intent	on	her	dress	or	whatever	it	was;	realising
what	she	might	have	spared	him,	what	she	had	reduced	him	to--a	whimpering,
snivelling	 old	 ass.	 But	 women,	 he	 thought,	 shutting	 his	 pocket-knife,	 don't
know	what	passion	is.	They	don't	know	the	meaning	of	it	to	men.	Clarissa	was
as	cold	as	an	icicle.	There	she	would	sit	on	the	sofa	by	his	side,	let	him	take
her	hand,	give	him	one	kiss--Here	he	was	at	the	crossing.

A	sound	interrupted	him;	a	frail	quivering	sound,	a	voice	bubbling	up	without
direction,	 vigour,	 beginning	 or	 end,	 running	 weakly	 and	 shrilly	 and	 with	 an
absence	of	all	human	meaning	into

	

ee	um	fah	um	so
foo	swee	too	eem	oo--

	

the	voice	of	no	age	or	sex,	the	voice	of	an	ancient	spring	spouting	from	the
earth;	 which	 issued,	 just	 opposite	 Regent's	 Park	 Tube	 station	 from	 a	 tall
quivering	shape,	like	a	funnel,	like	a	rusty	pump,	like	a	wind-beaten	tree	for
ever	barren	of	leaves	which	lets	the	wind	run	up	and	down	its	branches	singing

	

ee	um	fah	um	so
foo	swee	too	eem	oo

	

and	rocks	and	creaks	and	moans	in	the	eternal	breeze.

Through	all	ages--when	the	pavement	was	grass,	when	it	was	swamp,	through
the	age	of	tusk	and	mammoth,	through	the	age	of	silent	sunrise,	the	battered
woman--for	she	wore	a	skirt--with	her	right	hand	exposed,	her	left	clutching	at

her	 side,	 stood	 singing	 of	 love--love	 which	 has	 lasted	 a	 million	 years,	 she
sang,	love	which	prevails,	and	millions	of	years	ago,	her	lover,	who	had	been
dead	 these	 centuries,	 had	 walked,	 she	 crooned,	 with	 her	 in	 May;	 but	 in	 the
course	 of	 ages,	 long	 as	 summer	 days,	 and	 flaming,	 she	 remembered,	 with
nothing	but	red	asters,	he	had	gone;	death's	enormous	sickle	had	swept	those
tremendous	hills,	and	when	at	last	she	laid	her	hoary	and	immensely	aged	head
on	the	earth,	now	become	a	mere	cinder	of	ice,	she	implored	the	Gods	to	lay
by	her	side	a	bunch	of	purple-heather,	there	on	her	high	burial	place	which	the
last	rays	of	the	last	sun	caressed;	for	then	the	pageant	of	the	universe	would	be
over.

As	the	ancient	song	bubbled	up	opposite	Regent's	Park	Tube	station	still	the
earth	seemed	green	and	flowery;	still,	though	it	issued	from	so	rude	a	mouth,	a
mere	hole	in	the	earth,	muddy	too,	matted	with	root	fibres	and	tangled	grasses,
still	 the	 old	 bubbling	 burbling	 song,	 soaking	 through	 the	 knotted	 roots	 of
infinite	ages,	and	skeletons	and	treasure,	streamed	away	in	rivulets	over	the
pavement	 and	 all	 along	 the	 Marylebone	 Road,	 and	 down	 towards	 Euston,
fertilising,	leaving	a	damp	stain.

Still	remembering	how	once	in	some	primeval	May	she	had	walked	with	her
lover,	 this	 rusty	 pump,	 this	 battered	 old	 woman	 with	 one	 hand	 exposed	 for
coppers	the	other	clutching	her	side,	would	still	be	there	in	ten	million	years,
remembering	how	once	she	had	walked	in	May,	where	the	sea	flows	now,	with
whom	it	did	not	matter--he	was	a	man,	oh	yes,	a	man	who	had	loved	her.	But
the	passage	of	ages	had	blurred	the	clarity	of	that	ancient	May	day;	the	bright
petalled	flowers	were	hoar	and	silver	frosted;	and	she	no	longer	saw,	when	she
implored	him	(as	she	did	now	quite	clearly)	"look	in	my	eyes	with	thy	sweet
eyes	intently,"	she	no	longer	saw	brown	eyes,	black	whiskers	or	sunburnt	face
but	 only	 a	 looming	 shape,	 a	 shadow	 shape,	 to	 which,	 with	 the	 bird-like
freshness	of	the	very	aged	she	still	twittered	"give	me	your	hand	and	let	me
press	it	gently"	(Peter	Walsh	couldn't	help	giving	the	poor	creature	a	coin	as	he
stepped	 into	 his	 taxi),	 "and	 if	 some	 one	 should	 see,	 what	 matter	 they?"	 she
demanded;	 and	 her	 fist	 clutched	 at	 her	 side,	 and	 she	 smiled,	 pocketing	 her
shilling,	and	all	peering	inquisitive	eyes	seemed	blotted	out,	and	the	passing
generations--the	 pavement	 was	 crowded	 with	 bustling	 middle-class	 people--
vanished,	like	leaves,	to	be	trodden	under,	to	be	soaked	and	steeped	and	made
mould	of	by	that	eternal	spring--

	

ee	um	fah	um	so
foo	swee	too	eem	oo

	

"Poor	old	woman,"	said	Rezia	Warren	Smith,	waiting	to	cross.

Oh	poor	old	wretch!

Suppose	 it	 was	 a	 wet	 night?	 Suppose	 one's	 father,	 or	 somebody	 who	 had
known	one	in	better	days	had	happened	to	pass,	and	saw	one	standing	there	in
the	gutter?	And	where	did	she	sleep	at	night?

Cheerfully,	almost	gaily,	the	invincible	thread	of	sound	wound	up	into	the	air
like	 the	 smoke	 from	 a	 cottage	 chimney,	 winding	 up	 clean	 beech	 trees	 and
issuing	in	a	tuft	of	blue	smoke	among	the	topmost	leaves.	"And	if	some	one
should	see,	what	matter	they?"

Since	 she	 was	 so	 unhappy,	 for	 weeks	 and	 weeks	 now,	 Rezia	 had	 given
meanings	 to	 things	 that	 happened,	 almost	 felt	 sometimes	 that	 she	 must	 stop
people	in	the	street,	if	they	looked	good,	kind	people,	just	to	say	to	them	"I	am
unhappy";	and	this	old	woman	singing	in	the	street	"if	some	one	should	see,
what	matter	they?"	made	her	suddenly	quite	sure	that	everything	was	going	to
be	 right.	 They	 were	 going	 to	 Sir	 William	 Bradshaw;	 she	 thought	 his	 name
sounded	nice;	he	would	cure	Septimus	at	once.	And	then	there	was	a	brewer's
cart,	and	the	grey	horses	had	upright	bristles	of	straw	in	their	tails;	there	were
newspaper	placards.	It	was	a	silly,	silly	dream,	being	unhappy.

So	they	crossed,	Mr.	and	Mrs.	Septimus	Warren	Smith,	and	was	there,	after	all,
anything	to	draw	attention	to	them,	anything	to	make	a	passer-by	suspect	here
is	a	young	man	who	carries	in	him	the	greatest	message	in	the	world,	and	is,
moreover,	 the	 happiest	 man	 in	 the	 world,	 and	 the	 most	 miserable?	 Perhaps
they	 walked	 more	 slowly	 than	 other	 people,	 and	 there	 was	 something
hesitating,	trailing,	in	the	man's	walk,	but	what	more	natural	for	a	clerk,	who
has	not	been	in	the	West	End	on	a	weekday	at	this	hour	for	years,	than	to	keep
looking	at	the	sky,	looking	at	this,	that	and	the	other,	as	if	Portland	Place	were
a	 room	 he	 had	 come	 into	 when	 the	 family	 are	 away,	 the	 chandeliers	 being
hung	in	holland	bags,	and	the	caretaker,	as	she	lets	in	long	shafts	of	dusty	light
upon	deserted,	queer-looking	armchairs,	lifting	one	corner	of	the	long	blinds,
explains	to	the	visitors	what	a	wonderful	place	it	is;	how	wonderful,	but	at	the
same	time,	he	thinks,	as	he	looks	at	chairs	and	tables,	how	strange.

To	 look	 at,	 he	 might	 have	 been	 a	 clerk,	 but	 of	 the	 better	 sort;	 for	 he	 wore
brown	boots;	his	hands	were	educated;	so,	too,	his	profile--his	angular,	big-
nosed,	intelligent,	sensitive	profile;	but	not	his	lips	altogether,	for	they	were
loose;	and	his	eyes	(as	eyes	tend	to	be),	eyes	merely;	hazel,	large;	so	that	he
was,	on	the	whole,	a	border	case,	neither	one	thing	nor	the	other,	might	end
with	a	house	at	Purley	and	a	motor	car,	or	continue	renting	apartments	in	back
streets	 all	 his	 life;	 one	 of	 those	 half-educated,	 self-educated	 men	 whose

education	is	all	learnt	from	books	borrowed	from	public	libraries,	read	in	the
evening	after	the	day's	work,	on	the	advice	of	well-known	authors	consulted
by	letter.

As	for	the	other	experiences,	the	solitary	ones,	which	people	go	through	alone,
in	 their	 bedrooms,	 in	 their	 offices,	 walking	 the	 fields	 and	 the	 streets	 of
London,	he	had	them;	had	left	home,	a	mere	boy,	because	of	his	mother;	she
lied;	 because	 he	 came	 down	 to	 tea	 for	 the	 fiftieth	 time	 with	 his	 hands
unwashed;	because	he	could	see	no	future	for	a	poet	in	Stroud;	and	so,	making
a	 confidant	 of	 his	 little	 sister,	 had	 gone	 to	 London	 leaving	 an	 absurd	 note
behind	him,	such	as	great	men	have	written,	and	the	world	has	read	later	when
the	story	of	their	struggles	has	become	famous.

London	has	swallowed	up	many	millions	of	young	men	called	Smith;	thought
nothing	 of	 fantastic	 Christian	 names	 like	 Septimus	 with	 which	 their	 parents
have	 thought	 to	 distinguish	 them.	 Lodging	 off	 the	 Euston	 Road,	 there	 were
experiences,	again	experiences,	such	as	change	a	face	in	two	years	from	a	pink
innocent	oval	to	a	face	lean,	contracted,	hostile.	But	of	all	this	what	could	the
most	 observant	 of	 friends	 have	 said	 except	 what	 a	 gardener	 says	 when	 he
opens	the	conservatory	door	in	the	morning	and	finds	a	new	blossom	on	his
plant:--It	 has	 flowered;	 flowered	 from	 vanity,	 ambition,	 idealism,	 passion,
loneliness,	courage,	laziness,	the	usual	seeds,	which	all	muddled	up	(in	a	room
off	the	Euston	Road),	made	him	shy,	and	stammering,	made	him	anxious	to
improve	himself,	made	him	fall	in	love	with	Miss	Isabel	Pole,	lecturing	in	the
Waterloo	Road	upon	Shakespeare.

Was	 he	 not	 like	 Keats?	 she	 asked;	 and	 reflected	 how	 she	 might	 give	 him	 a
taste	of	Antony	and	Cleopatra	and	the	rest;	lent	him	books;	wrote	him	scraps
of	letters;	and	lit	in	him	such	a	fire	as	burns	only	once	in	a	lifetime,	without
heat,	flickering	a	red	gold	flame	infinitely	ethereal	and	insubstantial	over	Miss
Pole;	Antony	and	Cleopatra;	and	the	Waterloo	Road.	He	thought	her	beautiful,
believed	 her	 impeccably	 wise;	 dreamed	 of	 her,	 wrote	 poems	 to	 her,	 which,
ignoring	 the	 subject,	 she	 corrected	 in	 red	 ink;	 he	 saw	 her,	 one	 summer
evening,	walking	in	a	green	dress	in	a	square.	"It	has	flowered,"	the	gardener
might	have	said,	had	he	opened	the	door;	had	he	come	in,	that	is	to	say,	any
night	about	this	time,	and	found	him	writing;	found	him	tearing	up	his	writing;
found	him	finishing	a	masterpiece	at	three	o'clock	in	the	morning	and	running
out	 to	 pace	 the	 streets,	 and	 visiting	 churches,	 and	 fasting	 one	 day,	 drinking
another,	 devouring	 Shakespeare,	 Darwin,	 The	 History	 of	 Civilisation,	 and
Bernard	Shaw.

Something	was	up,	Mr.	Brewer	knew;	Mr.	Brewer,	managing	clerk	at	Sibleys
and	Arrowsmiths,	auctioneers,	valuers,	land	and	estate	agents;	something	was
up,	 he	 thought,	 and,	 being	 paternal	 with	 his	 young	 men,	 and	 thinking	 very

highly	 of	 Smith's	 abilities,	 and	 prophesying	 that	 he	 would,	 in	 ten	 or	 fifteen
years,	 succeed	 to	 the	 leather	 arm-chair	 in	 the	 inner	 room	 under	 the	 skylight
with	the	deed-boxes	round	him,	"if	he	keeps	his	health,"	said	Mr.	Brewer,	and
that	was	the	danger--he	looked	weakly;	advised	football,	invited	him	to	supper
and	 was	 seeing	 his	 way	 to	 consider	 recommending	 a	 rise	 of	 salary,	 when
something	happened	which	threw	out	many	of	Mr.	Brewer's	calculations,	took
away	his	ablest	young	fellows,	and	eventually,	so	prying	and	insidious	were
the	fingers	of	the	European	War,	smashed	a	plaster	cast	of	Ceres,	ploughed	a
hole	in	the	geranium	beds,	and	utterly	ruined	the	cook's	nerves	at	Mr.	Brewer's
establishment	at	Muswell	Hill.

Septimus	 was	 one	 of	 the	 first	 to	 volunteer.	 He	 went	 to	 France	 to	 save	 an
England	 which	 consisted	 almost	 entirely	 of	 Shakespeare's	 plays	 and	 Miss
Isabel	 Pole	 in	 a	 green	 dress	 walking	 in	 a	 square.	 There	 in	 the	 trenches	 the
change	 which	 Mr.	 Brewer	 desired	 when	 he	 advised	 football	 was	 produced
instantly;	 he	 developed	 manliness;	 he	 was	 promoted;	 he	 drew	 the	 attention,
indeed	the	affection	of	his	officer,	Evans	by	name.	It	was	a	case	of	two	dogs
playing	 on	 a	 hearth-rug;	 one	 worrying	 a	 paper	 screw,	 snarling,	 snapping,
giving	a	pinch,	now	and	then,	at	the	old	dog's	ear;	the	other	lying	somnolent,
blinking	 at	 the	 fire,	 raising	 a	 paw,	 turning	 and	 growling	 good-temperedly.
They	had	to	be	together,	share	with	each	other,	fight	with	each	other,	quarrel
with	each	other.	But	when	Evans	(Rezia	who	had	only	seen	him	once	called
him	"a	quiet	man,"	a	sturdy	red-haired	man,	undemonstrative	in	the	company
of	 women),	 when	 Evans	 was	 killed,	 just	 before	 the	 Armistice,	 in	 Italy,
Septimus,	far	from	showing	any	emotion	or	recognising	that	here	was	the	end
of	 a	 friendship,	 congratulated	 himself	 upon	 feeling	 very	 little	 and	 very
reasonably.	The	War	had	taught	him.	It	was	sublime.	He	had	gone	through	the
whole	 show,	 friendship,	 European	 War,	 death,	 had	 won	 promotion,	 was	 still
under	 thirty	 and	 was	 bound	 to	 survive.	 He	 was	 right	 there.	 The	 last	 shells
missed	him.	He	watched	them	explode	with	indifference.	When	peace	came	he
was	in	Milan,	billeted	in	the	house	of	an	innkeeper	with	a	courtyard,	flowers	in
tubs,	 little	 tables	 in	 the	 open,	 daughters	 making	 hats,	 and	 to	 Lucrezia,	 the
younger	 daughter,	 he	 became	 engaged	 one	 evening	 when	 the	 panic	 was	 on
him--that	he	could	not	feel.

For	 now	 that	 it	 was	 all	 over,	 truce	 signed,	 and	 the	 dead	 buried,	 he	 had,
especially	 in	 the	 evening,	 these	 sudden	 thunder-claps	 of	 fear.	 He	 could	 not
feel.	 As	 he	 opened	 the	 door	 of	 the	 room	 where	 the	 Italian	 girls	 sat	 making
hats,	 he	 could	 see	 them;	 could	 hear	 them;	 they	 were	 rubbing	 wires	 among
coloured	 beads	 in	 saucers;	 they	 were	 turning	 buckram	 shapes	 this	 way	 and
that;	the	table	was	all	strewn	with	feathers,	spangles,	silks,	ribbons;	scissors
were	rapping	on	the	table;	but	something	failed	him;	he	could	not	feel.	Still,
scissors	 rapping,	 girls	 laughing,	 hats	 being	 made	 protected	 him;	 he	 was

assured	of	safety;	he	had	a	refuge.	But	he	could	not	sit	there	all	night.	There
were	moments	of	waking	in	the	early	morning.	The	bed	was	falling;	he	was
falling.	 Oh	 for	 the	 scissors	 and	 the	 lamplight	 and	 the	 buckram	 shapes!	 He
asked	Lucrezia	to	marry	him,	the	younger	of	the	two,	the	gay,	the	frivolous,
with	 those	 little	 artist's	 fingers	 that	 she	 would	 hold	 up	 and	 say	 "It	 is	 all	 in
them."	Silk,	feathers,	what	not	were	alive	to	them.

"It	is	the	hat	that	matters	most,"	she	would	say,	when	they	walked	out	together.
Every	hat	that	passed,	she	would	examine;	and	the	cloak	and	the	dress	and	the
way	the	woman	held	herself.	Ill-dressing,	over-dressing	she	stigmatised,	not
savagely,	rather	with	impatient	movements	of	the	hands,	like	those	of	a	painter
who	 puts	 from	 him	 some	 obvious	 well-meant	 glaring	 imposture;	 and	 then,
generously,	 but	 always	 critically,	 she	 would	 welcome	 a	 shopgirl	 who	 had
turned	her	little	bit	of	stuff	gallantly,	or	praise,	wholly,	with	enthusiastic	and
professional	 understanding,	 a	 French	 lady	 descending	 from	 her	 carriage,	 in
chinchilla,	robes,	pearls.

"Beautiful!"	 she	 would	 murmur,	 nudging	 Septimus,	 that	 he	 might	 see.	 But
beauty	was	behind	a	pane	of	glass.	Even	taste	(Rezia	liked	ices,	chocolates,
sweet	things)	had	no	relish	to	him.	He	put	down	his	cup	on	the	little	marble
table.	 He	 looked	 at	 people	 outside;	 happy	 they	 seemed,	 collecting	 in	 the
middle	of	the	street,	shouting,	laughing,	squabbling	over	nothing.	But	he	could
not	taste,	he	could	not	feel.	In	the	tea-shop	among	the	tables	and	the	chattering
waiters	the	appalling	fear	came	over	him--he	could	not	feel.	He	could	reason;
he	could	read,	Dante	for	example,	quite	easily	("Septimus,	do	put	down	your
book,"	said	Rezia,	gently	shutting	the	Inferno),	he	could	add	up	his	bill;	his
brain	was	perfect;	it	must	be	the	fault	of	the	world	then--that	he	could	not	feel.

"The	English	are	so	silent,"	Rezia	said.	She	liked	it,	she	said.	She	respected
these	Englishmen,	and	wanted	to	see	London,	and	the	English	horses,	and	the
tailor-made	suits,	and	could	remember	hearing	how	wonderful	the	shops	were,
from	an	Aunt	who	had	married	and	lived	in	Soho.

It	 might	 be	 possible,	 Septimus	 thought,	 looking	 at	 England	 from	 the	 train
window,	as	they	left	Newhaven;	it	might	be	possible	that	the	world	itself	is
without	meaning.

At	the	office	they	advanced	him	to	a	post	of	considerable	responsibility.	They
were	proud	of	him;	he	had	won	crosses.	"You	have	done	your	duty;	it	is	up	to
us--"	began	Mr.	Brewer;	and	could	not	finish,	so	pleasurable	was	his	emotion.
They	took	admirable	lodgings	off	the	Tottenham	Court	Road.

Here	 he	 opened	 Shakespeare	 once	 more.	 That	 boy's	 business	 of	 the
intoxication	of	language--Antony	and	Cleopatra--had	shrivelled	utterly.	How

Shakespeare	 loathed	 humanity--the	 putting	 on	 of	 clothes,	 the	 getting	 of
children,	the	sordidity	of	the	mouth	and	the	belly!	This	was	now	revealed	to
Septimus;	the	message	hidden	in	the	beauty	of	words.	The	secret	signal	which
one	generation	passes,	under	disguise,	to	the	next	is	loathing,	hatred,	despair.
Dante	the	same.	Aeschylus	(translated)	the	same.	There	Rezia	sat	at	the	table
trimming	hats.	She	trimmed	hats	for	Mrs.	Filmer's	friends;	she	trimmed	hats
by	the	hour.	She	looked	pale,	mysterious,	like	a	lily,	drowned,	under	water,	he
thought.

"The	English	are	so	serious,"	she	would	say,	putting	her	arms	round	Septimus,
her	cheek	against	his.

Love	between	man	and	woman	was	repulsive	to	Shakespeare.	The	business	of
copulation	 was	 filth	 to	 him	 before	 the	 end.	 But,	 Rezia	 said,	 she	 must	 have
children.	They	had	been	married	five	years.

They	went	to	the	Tower	together;	to	the	Victoria	and	Albert	Museum;	stood	in
the	 crowd	 to	 see	 the	 King	 open	 Parliament.	 And	 there	 were	 the	 shops--hat
shops,	dress	shops,	shops	with	leather	bags	in	the	window,	where	she	would
stand	staring.	But	she	must	have	a	boy.

She	 must	 have	 a	 son	 like	 Septimus,	 she	 said.	 But	 nobody	 could	 be	 like
Septimus;	 so	 gentle;	 so	 serious;	 so	 clever.	 Could	 she	 not	 read	 Shakespeare
too?	Was	Shakespeare	a	difficult	author?	she	asked.

One	 cannot	 bring	 children	 into	 a	 world	 like	 this.	 One	 cannot	 perpetuate
suffering,	or	increase	the	breed	of	these	lustful	animals,	who	have	no	lasting
emotions,	but	only	whims	and	vanities,	eddying	them	now	this	way,	now	that.

He	 watched	 her	 snip,	 shape,	 as	 one	 watches	 a	 bird	 hop,	 flit	 in	 the	 grass,
without	daring	to	move	a	finger.	For	the	truth	is	(let	her	ignore	it)	that	human
beings	 have	 neither	 kindness,	 nor	 faith,	 nor	 charity	 beyond	 what	 serves	 to
increase	the	pleasure	of	the	moment.	They	hunt	in	packs.	Their	packs	scour
the	 desert	 and	 vanish	 screaming	 into	 the	 wilderness.	 They	 desert	 the	 fallen.
They	are	plastered	over	with	grimaces.	There	was	Brewer	at	the	office,	with
his	waxed	moustache,	coral	tie-pin,	white	slip,	and	pleasurable	emotions--all
coldness	and	clamminess	within,--his	geraniums	ruined	in	the	War--his	cook's
nerves	 destroyed;	 or	 Amelia	 What'shername,	 handing	 round	 cups	 of	 tea
punctually	at	five--a	leering,	sneering	obscene	little	harpy;	and	the	Toms	and
Berties	 in	 their	 starched	 shirt	 fronts	 oozing	 thick	 drops	 of	 vice.	 They	 never
saw	him	drawing	pictures	of	them	naked	at	their	antics	in	his	notebook.	In	the
street,	 vans	 roared	 past	 him;	 brutality	 blared	 out	 on	 placards;	 men	 were
trapped	in	mines;	women	burnt	alive;	and	once	a	maimed	file	of	lunatics	being
exercised	or	displayed	for	the	diversion	of	the	populace	(who	laughed	aloud),

ambled	and	nodded	and	grinned	past	him,	in	the	Tottenham	Court	Road,	each
half	 apologetically,	 yet	 triumphantly,	 inflicting	 his	 hopeless	 woe.	 And
would	he	go	mad?

At	 tea	 Rezia	 told	 him	 that	 Mrs.	 Filmer's	 daughter	 was	 expecting	 a
baby.	She	could	not	grow	old	and	have	no	children!	She	was	very	lonely,	she
was	very	unhappy!	She	cried	for	the	first	time	since	they	were	married.	Far
away	he	heard	her	sobbing;	he	heard	it	accurately,	he	noticed	it	distinctly;	he
compared	it	to	a	piston	thumping.	But	he	felt	nothing.

His	wife	was	crying,	and	he	felt	nothing;	only	each	time	she	sobbed	in	this
profound,	this	silent,	this	hopeless	way,	he	descended	another	step	into	the	pit.

At	last,	with	a	melodramatic	gesture	which	he	assumed	mechanically	and	with
complete	consciousness	of	its	insincerity,	he	dropped	his	head	on	his	hands.
Now	 he	 had	 surrendered;	 now	 other	 people	 must	 help	 him.	 People	 must	 be
sent	for.	He	gave	in.

Nothing	could	rouse	him.	Rezia	put	him	to	bed.	She	sent	for	a	doctor--Mrs.
Filmer's	Dr.	Holmes.	Dr.	Holmes	examined	him.	There	was	nothing	whatever
the	matter,	said	Dr.	Holmes.	Oh,	what	a	relief!	What	a	kind	man,	what	a	good
man!	thought	Rezia.	When	he	felt	like	that	he	went	to	the	Music	Hall,	said	Dr.
Holmes.	 He	 took	 a	 day	 off	 with	 his	 wife	 and	 played	 golf.	 Why	 not	 try	 two
tabloids	 of	 bromide	 dissolved	 in	 a	 glass	 of	 water	 at	 bedtime?	 These	 old
Bloomsbury	houses,	said	Dr.	Holmes,	tapping	the	wall,	are	often	full	of	very
fine	panelling,	which	the	landlords	have	the	folly	to	paper	over.	Only	the	other
day,	visiting	a	patient,	Sir	Somebody	Something	in	Bedford	Square--

So	there	was	no	excuse;	nothing	whatever	the	matter,	except	the	sin	for	which
human	nature	had	condemned	him	to	death;	that	he	did	not	feel.	He	had	not
cared	when	Evans	was	killed;	that	was	worst;	but	all	the	other	crimes	raised
their	heads	and	shook	their	fingers	and	jeered	and	sneered	over	the	rail	of	the
bed	in	the	early	hours	of	the	morning	at	the	prostrate	body	which	lay	realising
its	degradation;	how	he	had	married	his	wife	without	loving	her;	had	lied	to
her;	seduced	her;	outraged	Miss	Isabel	Pole,	and	was	so	pocked	and	marked
with	vice	that	women	shuddered	when	they	saw	him	in	the	street.	The	verdict
of	human	nature	on	such	a	wretch	was	death.

Dr.	Holmes	came	again.	Large,	fresh	coloured,	handsome,	flicking	his	boots,
looking	 in	 the	 glass,	 he	 brushed	 it	 all	 aside--headaches,	 sleeplessness,	 fears,
dreams--nerve	 symptoms	 and	 nothing	 more,	 he	 said.	 If	 Dr.	 Holmes	 found
himself	 even	 half	 a	 pound	 below	 eleven	 stone	 six,	 he	 asked	 his	 wife	 for
another	plate	of	porridge	at	breakfast.	(Rezia	would	learn	to	cook	porridge.)
But,	 he	 continued,	 health	 is	 largely	 a	 matter	 in	 our	 own	 control.	 Throw

yourself	into	outside	interests;	take	up	some	hobby.	He	opened	Shakespeare--
Antony	 and	 Cleopatra;	 pushed	 Shakespeare	 aside.	 Some	 hobby,	 said	 Dr.
Holmes,	for	did	he	not	owe	his	own	excellent	health	(and	he	worked	as	hard	as
any	 man	 in	 London)	 to	 the	 fact	 that	 he	 could	 always	 switch	 off	 from	 his
patients	on	to	old	furniture?	And	what	a	very	pretty	comb,	if	he	might	say	so,
Mrs.	Warren	Smith	was	wearing!

When	 the	 damned	 fool	 came	 again,	 Septimus	 refused	 to	 see	 him.	 Did	 he
indeed?	 said	 Dr.	 Holmes,	 smiling	 agreeably.	 Really	 he	 had	 to	 give	 that
charming	little	lady,	Mrs.	Smith,	a	friendly	push	before	he	could	get	past	her
into	her	husband's	bedroom.

"So	you're	in	a	funk,"	he	said	agreeably,	sitting	down	by	his	patient's	side.	He
had	 actually	 talked	 of	 killing	 himself	 to	 his	 wife,	 quite	 a	 girl,	 a	 foreigner,
wasn't	she?	Didn't	that	give	her	a	very	odd	idea	of	English	husbands?	Didn't
one	owe	perhaps	a	duty	to	one's	wife?	Wouldn't	it	be	better	to	do	something
instead	of	lying	in	bed?	For	he	had	had	forty	years'	experience	behind	him;
and	Septimus	could	take	Dr.	Holmes's	word	for	it--there	was	nothing	whatever
the	matter	with	him.	And	next	time	Dr.	Holmes	came	he	hoped	to	find	Smith
out	 of	 bed	 and	 not	 making	 that	 charming	 little	 lady	 his	 wife	 anxious	 about
him.

Human	nature,	in	short,	was	on	him--the	repulsive	brute,	with	the	blood-red
nostrils.	 Holmes	 was	 on	 him.	 Dr.	 Holmes	 came	 quite	 regularly	 every	 day.
Once	you	stumble,	Septimus	wrote	on	the	back	of	a	postcard,	human	nature	is
on	you.	Holmes	is	on	you.	Their	only	chance	was	to	escape,	without	letting
Holmes	know;	to	Italy--anywhere,	anywhere,	away	from	Dr.	Holmes.

But	Rezia	could	not	understand	him.	Dr.	Holmes	was	such	a	kind	man.	He	was
so	interested	in	Septimus.	He	only	wanted	to	help	them,	he	said.	He	had	four
little	children	and	he	had	asked	her	to	tea,	she	told	Septimus.

So	 he	 was	 deserted.	 The	 whole	 world	 was	 clamouring:	 Kill	 yourself,	 kill
yourself,	for	our	sakes.	But	why	should	he	kill	himself	for	their	sakes?	Food
was	pleasant;	the	sun	hot;	and	this	killing	oneself,	how	does	one	set	about	it,
with	a	table	knife,	uglily,	with	floods	of	blood,--by	sucking	a	gaspipe?	He	was
too	 weak;	 he	 could	 scarcely	 raise	 his	 hand.	 Besides,	 now	 that	 he	 was	 quite
alone,	condemned,	deserted,	as	those	who	are	about	to	die	are	alone,	there	was
a	luxury	in	it,	an	isolation	full	of	sublimity;	a	freedom	which	the	attached	can
never	 know.	 Holmes	 had	 won	 of	 course;	 the	 brute	 with	 the	 red	 nostrils	 had
won.	But	even	Holmes	himself	could	not	touch	this	last	relic	straying	on	the
edge	of	the	world,	this	outcast,	who	gazed	back	at	the	inhabited	regions,	who
lay,	like	a	drowned	sailor,	on	the	shore	of	the	world.

It	 was	 at	 that	 moment	 (Rezia	 gone	 shopping)	 that	 the	 great	 revelation	 took
place.	A	voice	spoke	from	behind	the	screen.	Evans	was	speaking.	The	dead
were	with	him.

"Evans,	Evans!"	he	cried.

Mr.	Smith	was	talking	aloud	to	himself,	Agnes	the	servant	girl	cried	to	Mrs.
Filmer	in	the	kitchen.	"Evans,	Evans,"	he	had	said	as	she	brought	in	the	tray.
She	jumped,	she	did.	She	scuttled	downstairs.

And	Rezia	came	in,	with	her	flowers,	and	walked	across	the	room,	and	put	the
roses	 in	 a	 vase,	 upon	 which	 the	 sun	 struck	 directly,	 and	 it	 went	 laughing,
leaping	round	the	room.

She	had	had	to	buy	the	roses,	Rezia	said,	from	a	poor	man	in	the	street.	But
they	were	almost	dead	already,	she	said,	arranging	the	roses.

So	 there	 was	 a	 man	 outside;	 Evans	 presumably;	 and	 the	 roses,	 which	 Rezia
said	 were	 half	 dead,	 had	 been	 picked	 by	 him	 in	 the	 fields	 of	 Greece.
"Communication	is	health;	communication	is	happiness,	communication--"	he
muttered.

"What	are	you	saying,	Septimus?"	Rezia	asked,	wild	with	terror,	for	he	was
talking	to	himself.

She	sent	Agnes	running	for	Dr.	Holmes.	Her	husband,	she	said,	was	mad.	He
scarcely	knew	her.

"You	 brute!	 You	 brute!"	 cried	 Septimus,	 seeing	 human	 nature,	 that	 is	 Dr.
Holmes,	enter	the	room.

"Now	what's	all	this	about?"	said	Dr.	Holmes	in	the	most	amiable	way	in	the
world.	 "Talking	 nonsense	 to	 frighten	 your	 wife?"	 But	 he	 would	 give	 him
something	to	make	him	sleep.	And	if	they	were	rich	people,	said	Dr.	Holmes,
looking	ironically	round	the	room,	by	all	means	let	them	go	to	Harley	Street;	if
they	had	no	confidence	in	him,	said	Dr.	Holmes,	looking	not	quite	so	kind.

It	was	precisely	twelve	o'clock;	twelve	by	Big	Ben;	whose	stroke	was	wafted
over	the	northern	part	of	London;	blent	with	that	of	other	clocks,	mixed	in	a
thin	 ethereal	 way	 with	 the	 clouds	 and	 wisps	 of	 smoke,	 and	 died	 up	 there
among	the	seagulls--twelve	o'clock	struck	as	Clarissa	Dalloway	laid	her	green
dress	on	her	bed,	and	the	Warren	Smiths	walked	down	Harley	Street.	Twelve
was	 the	 hour	 of	 their	 appointment.	 Probably,	 Rezia	 thought,	 that	 was	 Sir
William	Bradshaw's	house	with	the	grey	motor	car	in	front	of	it.	The	leaden
circles	dissolved	in	the	air.

Indeed	 it	 was--Sir	 William	 Bradshaw's	 motor	 car;	 low,	 powerful,	 grey	 with
plain	 initials'	 interlocked	 on	 the	 panel,	 as	 if	 the	 pomps	 of	 heraldry	 were
incongruous,	this	man	being	the	ghostly	helper,	the	priest	of	science;	and,	as
the	 motor	 car	 was	 grey,	 so	 to	 match	 its	 sober	 suavity,	 grey	 furs,	 silver	 grey
rugs	were	heaped	in	it,	to	keep	her	ladyship	warm	while	she	waited.	For	often
Sir	William	would	travel	sixty	miles	or	more	down	into	the	country	to	visit	the
rich,	the	afflicted,	who	could	afford	the	very	large	fee	which	Sir	William	very
properly	charged	for	his	advice.	Her	ladyship	waited	with	the	rugs	about	her
knees	 an	 hour	 or	 more,	 leaning	 back,	 thinking	 sometimes	 of	 the	 patient,
sometimes,	excusably,	of	the	wall	of	gold,	mounting	minute	by	minute	while
she	waited;	the	wall	of	gold	that	was	mounting	between	them	and	all	shifts	and
anxieties	(she	had	borne	them	bravely;	they	had	had	their	struggles)	until	she
felt	 wedged	 on	 a	 calm	 ocean,	 where	 only	 spice	 winds	 blow;	 respected,
admired,	envied,	with	scarcely	anything	left	to	wish	for,	though	she	regretted
her	stoutness;	large	dinner-parties	every	Thursday	night	to	the	profession;	an
occasional	bazaar	to	be	opened;	Royalty	greeted;	too	little	time,	alas,	with	her
husband,	 whose	 work	 grew	 and	 grew;	 a	 boy	 doing	 well	 at	 Eton;	 she	 would
have	liked	a	daughter	too;	interests	she	had,	however,	in	plenty;	child	welfare;
the	after-care	of	the	epileptic,	and	photography,	so	that	if	there	was	a	church
building,	 or	 a	 church	 decaying,	 she	 bribed	 the	 sexton,	 got	 the	 key	 and	 took
photographs,	 which	 were	 scarcely	 to	 be	 distinguished	 from	 the	 work	 of
professionals,	while	she	waited.

Sir	William	himself	was	no	longer	young.	He	had	worked	very	hard;	he	had
won	his	position	by	sheer	ability	(being	the	son	of	a	shopkeeper);	loved	his
profession;	made	a	fine	figurehead	at	ceremonies	and	spoke	well--all	of	which
had	by	the	time	he	was	knighted	given	him	a	heavy	look,	a	weary	look	(the
stream	of	patients	being	so	incessant,	the	responsibilities	and	privileges	of	his
profession	 so	 onerous),	 which	 weariness,	 together	 with	 his	 grey	 hairs,
increased	 the	 extraordinary	 distinction	 of	 his	 presence	 and	 gave	 him	 the
reputation	(of	the	utmost	importance	in	dealing	with	nerve	cases)	not	merely
of	lightning	skill,	and	almost	infallible	accuracy	in	diagnosis	but	of	sympathy;
tact;	 understanding	 of	 the	 human	 soul.	 He	 could	 see	 the	 first	 moment	 they
came	 into	 the	 room	 (the	 Warren	 Smiths	 they	 were	 called);	 he	 was	 certain
directly	 he	 saw	 the	 man;	 it	 was	 a	 case	 of	 extreme	 gravity.	 It	 was	 a	 case	 of
complete	breakdown--complete	physical	and	nervous	breakdown,	with	every
symptom	in	an	advanced	stage,	he	ascertained	in	two	or	three	minutes	(writing
answers	to	questions,	murmured	discreetly,	on	a	pink	card).

How	long	had	Dr.	Holmes	been	attending	him?

Six	weeks.

Prescribed	a	little	bromide?	Said	there	was	nothing	the	matter?	Ah	yes	(those

general	practitioners!	thought	Sir	William.	It	took	half	his	time	to	undo	their
blunders.	Some	were	irreparable).

"You	served	with	great	distinction	in	the	War?"

The	patient	repeated	the	word	"war"	interrogatively.

He	was	attaching	meanings	to	words	of	a	symbolical	kind.	A	serious	symptom,
to	be	noted	on	the	card.

"The	 War?"	 the	 patient	 asked.	 The	 European	 War--that	 little	 shindy	 of
schoolboys	with	gunpowder?	Had	he	served	with	distinction?	He	really	forgot.
In	the	War	itself	he	had	failed.

"Yes,	 he	 served	 with	 the	 greatest	 distinction,"	 Rezia	 assured	 the	 doctor;	 "he
was	promoted."

"And	they	have	the	very	highest	opinion	of	you	at	your	office?"	Sir	William
murmured,	glancing	at	Mr.	Brewer's	very	generously	worded	letter.	"So	that
you	have	nothing	to	worry	you,	no	financial	anxiety,	nothing?"

He	had	committed	an	appalling	crime	and	been	condemned	to	death	by	human
nature.

"I	have--I	have,"	he	began,	"committed	a	crime--"

"He	has	done	nothing	wrong	whatever,"	Rezia	assured	the	doctor.	If	Mr.	Smith
would	wait,	said	Sir	William,	he	would	speak	to	Mrs.	Smith	in	the	next	room.
Her	husband	was	very	seriously	ill,	Sir	William	said.	Did	he	threaten	to	kill
himself?

Oh,	he	did,	she	cried.	But	he	did	not	mean	it,	she	said.	Of	course	not.	It	was
merely	a	question	of	rest,	said	Sir	William;	of	rest,	rest,	rest;	a	long	rest	in	bed.
There	was	a	delightful	home	down	in	the	country	where	her	husband	would	be
perfectly	 looked	 after.	 Away	 from	 her?	 she	 asked.	 Unfortunately,	 yes;	 the
people	we	care	for	most	are	not	good	for	us	when	we	are	ill.	But	he	was	not
mad,	was	he?	Sir	William	said	he	never	spoke	of	"madness";	he	called	it	not
having	a	sense	of	proportion.	But	her	husband	did	not	like	doctors.	He	would
refuse	to	go	there.	Shortly	and	kindly	Sir	William	explained	to	her	the	state	of
the	case.	He	had	threatened	to	kill	himself.	There	was	no	alternative.	It	was	a
question	of	law.	He	would	lie	in	bed	in	a	beautiful	house	in	the	country.	The
nurses	 were	 admirable.	 Sir	 William	 would	 visit	 him	 once	 a	 week.	 If	 Mrs.
Warren	 Smith	 was	 quite	 sure	 she	 had	 no	 more	 questions	 to	 ask--he	 never
hurried	his	patients--they	would	return	to	her	husband.	She	had	nothing	more
to	ask--not	of	Sir	William.

So	they	returned	to	the	most	exalted	of	mankind;	the	criminal	who	faced	his
judges;	the	victim	exposed	on	the	heights;	the	fugitive;	the	drowned	sailor;	the
poet	 of	 the	 immortal	 ode;	 the	 Lord	 who	 had	 gone	 from	 life	 to	 death;	 to
Septimus	Warren	Smith,	who	sat	in	the	arm-chair	under	the	skylight	staring	at
a	 photograph	 of	 Lady	 Bradshaw	 in	 Court	 dress,	 muttering	 messages	 about
beauty.

"We	have	had	our	little	talk,"	said	Sir	William.

"He	says	you	are	very,	very	ill,"	Rezia	cried.

"We	have	been	arranging	that	you	should	go	into	a	home,"	said	Sir	William.

"One	of	Holmes's	homes?"	sneered	Septimus.

The	fellow	made	a	distasteful	impression.	For	there	was	in	Sir	William,	whose
father	had	been	a	tradesman,	a	natural	respect	for	breeding	and	clothing,	which
shabbiness	nettled;	again,	more	profoundly,	there	was	in	Sir	William,	who	had
never	had	time	for	reading,	a	grudge,	deeply	buried,	against	cultivated	people
who	 came	 into	 his	 room	 and	 intimated	 that	 doctors,	 whose	 profession	 is	 a
constant	strain	upon	all	the	highest	faculties,	are	not	educated	men.

"One	of	my	homes,	Mr.	Warren	Smith,"	he	said,	"where	we	will	teach	you	to
rest."

And	there	was	just	one	thing	more.

He	 was	 quite	 certain	 that	 when	 Mr.	 Warren	 Smith	 was	 well	 he	 was	 the	 last
man	in	the	world	to	frighten	his	wife.	But	he	had	talked	of	killing	himself.

"We	all	have	our	moments	of	depression,"	said	Sir	William.

Once	you	fall,	Septimus	repeated	to	himself,	human	nature	is	on	you.	Holmes
and	Bradshaw	are	on	you.	They	scour	the	desert.	They	fly	screaming	into	the
wilderness.	 The	 rack	 and	 the	 thumbscrew	 are	 applied.	 Human	 nature	 is
remorseless.

"Impulses	came	upon	him	sometimes?"	Sir	William	asked,	with	his	pencil	on	a
pink	card.

That	was	his	own	affair,	said	Septimus.

"Nobody	lives	for	himself	alone,"	said	Sir	William,	glancing	at	the	photograph
of	his	wife	in	Court	dress.

"And	you	have	a	brilliant	career	before	you,"	said	Sir	William.	There	was	Mr.
Brewer's	letter	on	the	table.	"An	exceptionally	brilliant	career."

But	 if	 he	 confessed?	 If	 he	 communicated?	 Would	 they	 let	 him	 off	 then,	 his
torturers?

"I--I--"	he	stammered.

But	what	was	his	crime?	He	could	not	remember	it.

"Yes?"	Sir	William	encouraged	him.	(But	it	was	growing	late.)

Love,	trees,	there	is	no	crime--what	was	his	message?

He	could	not	remember	it.

"I--I--"	Septimus	stammered.

"Try	 to	 think	 as	 little	 about	 yourself	 as	 possible,"	 said	 Sir	 William	 kindly.
Really,	he	was	not	fit	to	be	about.

Was	there	anything	else	they	wished	to	ask	him?	Sir	William	would	make	all
arrangements	(he	murmured	to	Rezia)	and	he	would	let	her	know	between	five
and	six	that	evening	he	murmured.

"Trust	everything	to	me,"	he	said,	and	dismissed	them.

Never,	never	had	Rezia	felt	such	agony	in	her	life!	She	had	asked	for	help	and
been	deserted!	He	had	failed	them!	Sir	William	Bradshaw	was	not	a	nice	man.

The	upkeep	of	that	motor	car	alone	must	cost	him	quite	a	lot,	said	Septimus,
when	they	got	out	into	the	street.

She	clung	to	his	arm.	They	had	been	deserted.

But	what	more	did	she	want?

To	 his	 patients	 he	 gave	 three-quarters	 of	 an	 hour;	 and	 if	 in	 this	 exacting
science	 which	 has	 to	 do	 with	 what,	 after	 all,	 we	 know	 nothing	 about--the
nervous	system,	the	human	brain--a	doctor	loses	his	sense	of	proportion,	as	a
doctor	he	fails.	Health	we	must	have;	and	health	is	proportion;	so	that	when	a
man	comes	into	your	room	and	says	he	is	Christ	(a	common	delusion),	and	has
a	message,	as	they	mostly	have,	and	threatens,	as	they	often	do,	to	kill	himself,
you	invoke	proportion;	order	rest	in	bed;	rest	in	solitude;	silence	and	rest;	rest
without	 friends,	 without	 books,	 without	 messages;	 six	 months'	 rest;	 until	 a
man	who	went	in	weighing	seven	stone	six	comes	out	weighing	twelve.

Proportion,	 divine	 proportion,	 Sir	 William's	 goddess,	 was	 acquired	 by	 Sir
William	 walking	 hospitals,	 catching	 salmon,	 begetting	 one	 son	 in	 Harley
Street	 by	 Lady	 Bradshaw,	 who	 caught	 salmon	 herself	 and	 took	 photographs

scarcely	 to	 be	 distinguished	 from	 the	 work	 of	 professionals.	 Worshipping
proportion,	Sir	William	not	only	prospered	himself	but	made	England	prosper,
secluded	her	lunatics,	forbade	childbirth,	penalised	despair,	made	it	impossible
for	 the	 unfit	 to	 propagate	 their	 views	 until	 they,	 too,	 shared	 his	 sense	 of
proportion--his,	if	they	were	men,	Lady	Bradshaw's	if	they	were	women	(she
embroidered,	knitted,	spent	four	nights	out	of	seven	at	home	with	her	son),	so
that	not	only	did	his	colleagues	respect	him,	his	subordinates	fear	him,	but	the
friends	 and	 relations	 of	 his	 patients	 felt	 for	 him	 the	 keenest	 gratitude	 for
insisting	that	these	prophetic	Christs	and	Christesses,	who	prophesied	the	end
of	the	world,	or	the	advent	of	God,	should	drink	milk	in	bed,	as	Sir	William
ordered;	Sir	William	with	his	thirty	years'	experience	of	these	kinds	of	cases,
and	 his	 infallible	 instinct,	 this	 is	 madness,	 this	 sense;	 in	 fact,	 his	 sense	 of
proportion.

But	 Proportion	 has	 a	 sister,	 less	 smiling,	 more	 formidable,	 a	 Goddess	 even
now	engaged--in	the	heat	and	sands	of	India,	the	mud	and	swamp	of	Africa,
the	purlieus	of	London,	wherever	in	short	the	climate	or	the	devil	tempts	men
to	fall	from	the	true	belief	which	is	her	own--is	even	now	engaged	in	dashing
down	 shrines,	 smashing	 idols,	 and	 setting	 up	 in	 their	 place	 her	 own	 stern
countenance.	Conversion	is	her	name	and	she	feasts	on	the	wills	of	the	weakly,
loving	to	impress,	to	impose,	adoring	her	own	features	stamped	on	the	face	of
the	 populace.	 At	 Hyde	 Park	 Corner	 on	 a	 tub	 she	 stands	 preaching;	 shrouds
herself	 in	 white	 and	 walks	 penitentially	 disguised	 as	 brotherly	 love	 through
factories	and	parliaments;	offers	help,	but	desires	power;	smites	out	of	her	way
roughly	 the	 dissentient,	 or	 dissatisfied;	 bestows	 her	 blessing	 on	 those	 who,
looking	upward,	catch	submissively	from	her	eyes	the	light	of	their	own.	This
lady	 too	 (Rezia	 Warren	 Smith	 divined	 it)	 had	 her	 dwelling	 in	 Sir	 William's
heart,	though	concealed,	as	she	mostly	is,	under	some	plausible	disguise;	some
venerable	 name;	 love,	 duty,	 self	 sacrifice.	 How	 he	 would	 work--how	 toil	 to
raise	funds,	propagate	reforms,	initiate	institutions!	But	conversion,	fastidious
Goddess,	loves	blood	better	than	brick,	and	feasts	most	subtly	on	the	human
will.	For	example,	Lady	Bradshaw.	Fifteen	years	ago	she	had	gone	under.	It
was	nothing	you	could	put	your	finger	on;	there	had	been	no	scene,	no	snap;
only	the	slow	sinking,	water-logged,	of	her	will	into	his.	Sweet	was	her	smile,
swift	her	submission;	dinner	in	Harley	Street,	numbering	eight	or	nine	courses,
feeding	 ten	 or	 fifteen	 guests	 of	 the	 professional	 classes,	 was	 smooth	 and
urbane.	 Only	 as	 the	 evening	 wore	 on	 a	 very	 slight	 dulness,	 or	 uneasiness
perhaps,	 a	 nervous	 twitch,	 fumble,	 stumble	 and	 confusion	 indicated,	 what	 it
was	really	painful	to	believe--that	the	poor	lady	lied.	Once,	long	ago,	she	had
caught	 salmon	 freely:	 now,	 quick	 to	 minister	 to	 the	 craving	 which	 lit	 her
husband's	eye	so	oilily	for	dominion,	for	power,	she	cramped,	squeezed,	pared,
pruned,	drew	back,	peeped	through;	so	that	without	knowing	precisely	what
made	the	evening	disagreeable,	and	caused	this	pressure	on	the	top	of	the	head

(which	might	well	be	imputed	to	the	professional	conversation,	or	the	fatigue
of	 a	 great	 doctor	 whose	 life,	 Lady	 Bradshaw	 said,	 "is	 not	 his	 own	 but	 his
patients'")	 disagreeable	 it	 was:	 so	 that	 guests,	 when	 the	 clock	 struck	 ten,
breathed	in	the	air	of	Harley	Street	even	with	rapture;	which	relief,	however,
was	denied	to	his	patients.

There	 in	 the	 grey	 room,	 with	 the	 pictures	 on	 the	 wall,	 and	 the	 valuable
furniture,	 under	 the	 ground	 glass	 skylight,	 they	 learnt	 the	 extent	 of	 their
transgressions;	 huddled	 up	 in	 arm-chairs,	 they	 watched	 him	 go	 through,	 for
their	 benefit,	 a	 curious	 exercise	 with	 the	 arms,	 which	 he	 shot	 out,	 brought
sharply	back	to	his	hip,	to	prove	(if	the	patient	was	obstinate)	that	Sir	William
was	master	of	his	own	actions,	which	the	patient	was	not.	There	some	weakly
broke	 down;	 sobbed,	 submitted;	 others,	 inspired	 by	 Heaven	 knows	 what
intemperate	 madness,	 called	 Sir	 William	 to	 his	 face	 a	 damnable	 humbug;
questioned,	 even	 more	 impiously,	 life	 itself.	 Why	 live?	 they	 demanded.	 Sir
William	 replied	 that	 life	 was	 good.	 Certainly	 Lady	 Bradshaw	 in	 ostrich
feathers	hung	over	the	mantelpiece,	and	as	for	his	income	it	was	quite	twelve
thousand	a	year.	But	to	us,	they	protested,	life	has	given	no	such	bounty.	He
acquiesced.	They	lacked	a	sense	of	proportion.	And	perhaps,	after	all,	there	is
no	 God?	 He	 shrugged	 his	 shoulders.	 In	 short,	 this	 living	 or	 not	 living	 is	 an
affair	of	our	own?	But	there	they	were	mistaken.	Sir	William	had	a	friend	in
Surrey	where	they	taught,	what	Sir	William	frankly	admitted	was	a	difficult
art--a	 sense	 of	 proportion.	 There	 were,	 moreover,	 family	 affection;	 honour;
courage;	 and	 a	 brilliant	 career.	 All	 of	 these	 had	 in	 Sir	 William	 a	 resolute
champion.	If	they	failed	him,	he	had	to	support	police	and	the	good	of	society,
which,	he	remarked	very	quietly,	would	take	care,	down	in	Surrey,	that	these
unsocial	impulses,	bred	more	than	anything	by	the	lack	of	good	blood,	were
held	 in	 control.	 And	 then	 stole	 out	 from	 her	 hiding-place	 and	 mounted	 her
throne	that	Goddess	whose	lust	is	to	override	opposition,	to	stamp	indelibly	in
the	 sanctuaries	 of	 others	 the	 image	 of	 herself.	 Naked,	 defenceless,	 the
exhausted,	 the	 friendless	 received	 the	 impress	 of	 Sir	 William's	 will.	 He
swooped;	he	devoured.	He	shut	people	up.	It	was	this	combination	of	decision
and	 humanity	 that	 endeared	 Sir	 William	 so	 greatly	 to	 the	 relations	 of	 his
victims.

But	Rezia	Warren	Smith	cried,	walking	down	Harley	Street,	that	she	did	not
like	that	man.

Shredding	and	slicing,	dividing	and	subdividing,	the	clocks	of	Harley	Street
nibbled	at	the	June	day,	counselled	submission,	upheld	authority,	and	pointed
out	in	chorus	the	supreme	advantages	of	a	sense	of	proportion,	until	the	mound
of	 time	 was	 so	 far	 diminished	 that	 a	 commercial	 clock,	 suspended	 above	 a
shop	 in	 Oxford	 Street,	 announced,	 genially	 and	 fraternally,	 as	 if	 it	 were	 a

pleasure	to	Messrs.	Rigby	and	Lowndes	to	give	the	information	gratis,	that	it
was	half-past	one.

Looking	 up,	 it	 appeared	 that	 each	 letter	 of	 their	 names	 stood	 for	 one	 of	 the
hours;	subconsciously	one	was	grateful	to	Rigby	and	Lowndes	for	giving	one
time	ratified	by	Greenwich;	and	this	gratitude	(so	Hugh	Whitbread	ruminated,
dallying	there	in	front	of	the	shop	window),	naturally	took	the	form	later	of
buying	 off	 Rigby	 and	 Lowndes	 socks	 or	 shoes.	 So	 he	 ruminated.	 It	 was	 his
habit.	 He	 did	 not	 go	 deeply.	 He	 brushed	 surfaces;	 the	 dead	 languages,	 the
living,	life	in	Constantinople,	Paris,	Rome;	riding,	shooting,	tennis,	it	had	been
once.	The	malicious	asserted	that	he	now	kept	guard	at	Buckingham	Palace,
dressed	in	silk	stockings	and	knee-breeches,	over	what	nobody	knew.	But	he
did	it	extremely	efficiently.	He	had	been	afloat	on	the	cream	of	English	society
for	 fifty-five	 years.	 He	 had	 known	 Prime	 Ministers.	 His	 affections	 were
understood	to	be	deep.	And	if	it	were	true	that	he	had	not	taken	part	in	any	of
the	great	movements	of	the	time	or	held	important	office,	one	or	two	humble
reforms	 stood	 to	 his	 credit;	 an	 improvement	 in	 public	 shelters	 was	 one;	 the
protection	of	owls	in	Norfolk	another;	servant	girls	had	reason	to	be	grateful	to
him;	 and	 his	 name	 at	 the	 end	 of	 letters	 to	 the	 Times,	 asking	 for	 funds,
appealing	 to	 the	 public	 to	 protect,	 to	 preserve,	 to	 clear	 up	 litter,	 to	 abate
smoke,	and	stamp	out	immorality	in	parks,	commanded	respect.

A	magnificent	figure	he	cut	too,	pausing	for	a	moment	(as	the	sound	of	the
half	 hour	 died	 away)	 to	 look	 critically,	 magisterially,	 at	 socks	 and	 shoes;
impeccable,	substantial,	as	if	he	beheld	the	world	from	a	certain	eminence,	and
dressed	 to	 match;	 but	 realised	 the	 obligations	 which	 size,	 wealth,	 health,
entail,	 and	 observed	 punctiliously	 even	 when	 not	 absolutely	 necessary,	 little
courtesies,	 old-fashioned	 ceremonies	 which	 gave	 a	 quality	 to	 his	 manner,
something	 to	 imitate,	 something	 to	 remember	 him	 by,	 for	 he	 would	 never
lunch,	 for	 example,	 with	 Lady	 Bruton,	 whom	 he	 had	 known	 these	 twenty
years,	without	bringing	her	in	his	outstretched	hand	a	bunch	of	carnations	and
asking	Miss	Brush,	Lady	Bruton's	secretary,	after	her	brother	in	South	Africa,
which,	 for	 some	 reason,	 Miss	 Brush,	 deficient	 though	 she	 was	 in	 every
attribute	 of	 female	 charm,	 so	 much	 resented	 that	 she	 said	 "Thank	 you,	 he's
doing	very	well	in	South	Africa,"	when,	for	half	a	dozen	years,	he	had	been
doing	badly	in	Portsmouth.

Lady	 Bruton	 herself	 preferred	 Richard	 Dalloway,	 who	 arrived	 at	 the	 next
moment.	Indeed	they	met	on	the	doorstep.

Lady	 Bruton	 preferred	 Richard	 Dalloway	 of	 course.	 He	 was	 made	 of	 much
finer	material.	But	she	wouldn't	let	them	run	down	her	poor	dear	Hugh.	She
could	 never	 forget	 his	 kindness--he	 had	 been	 really	 remarkably	 kind--she
forgot	 precisely	 upon	 what	 occasion.	 But	 he	 had	 been--remarkably	 kind.

Anyhow,	 the	 difference	 between	 one	 man	 and	 another	 does	 not	 amount	 to
much.	She	had	never	seen	the	sense	of	cutting	people	up,	as	Clarissa	Dalloway
did--cutting	them	up	and	sticking	them	together	again;	not	at	any	rate	when
one	was	sixty-two.	She	took	Hugh's	carnations	with	her	angular	grim	smile.
There	 was	 nobody	 else	 coming,	 she	 said.	 She	 had	 got	 them	 there	 on	 false
pretences,	to	help	her	out	of	a	difficulty--

"But	let	us	eat	first,"	she	said.

And	so	there	began	a	soundless	and	exquisite	passing	to	and	fro	through	swing
doors	 of	 aproned	 white-capped	 maids,	 handmaidens	 not	 of	 necessity,	 but
adepts	in	a	mystery	or	grand	deception	practised	by	hostesses	in	Mayfair	from
one-thirty	to	two,	when,	with	a	wave	of	the	hand,	the	traffic	ceases,	and	there
rises	instead	this	profound	illusion	in	the	first	place	about	the	food--how	it	is
not	paid	for;	and	then	that	the	table	spreads	itself	voluntarily	with	glass	and
silver,	little	mats,	saucers	of	red	fruit;	films	of	brown	cream	mask	turbot;	in
casseroles	severed	chickens	swim;	coloured,	undomestic,	the	fire	burns;	and
with	the	wine	and	the	coffee	(not	paid	for)	rise	jocund	visions	before	musing
eyes;	gently	speculative	eyes;	eyes	to	whom	life	appears	musical,	mysterious;
eyes	now	kindled	to	observe	genially	the	beauty	of	the	red	carnations	which
Lady	 Bruton	 (whose	 movements	 were	 always	 angular)	 had	 laid	 beside	 her
plate,	so	that	Hugh	Whitbread,	feeling	at	peace	with	the	entire	universe	and	at
the	same	time	completely	sure	of	his	standing,	said,	resting	his	fork,

"Wouldn't	they	look	charming	against	your	lace?"

Miss	Brush	resented	this	familiarity	intensely.	She	thought	him	an	underbred
fellow.	She	made	Lady	Bruton	laugh.

Lady	Bruton	raised	the	carnations,	holding	them	rather	stiffly	with	much	the
same	attitude	with	which	the	General	held	the	scroll	in	the	picture	behind	her;
she	remained	fixed,	tranced.	Which	was	she	now,	the	General's	great-grand-
daughter?	 great-great-grand-daughter?	 Richard	 Dalloway	 asked	 himself.	 Sir
Roderick,	 Sir	 Miles,	 Sir	 Talbot--that	 was	 it.	 It	 was	 remarkable	 how	 in	 that
family	the	likeness	persisted	in	the	women.	She	should	have	been	a	general	of
dragoons	 herself.	 And	 Richard	 would	 have	 served	 under	 her,	 cheerfully;	 he
had	the	greatest	respect	for	her;	he	cherished	these	romantic	views	about	well-
set-up	old	women	of	pedigree,	and	would	have	liked,	in	his	good-humoured
way,	to	bring	some	young	hot-heads	of	his	acquaintance	to	lunch	with	her;	as
if	a	type	like	hers	could	be	bred	of	amiable	tea-drinking	enthusiasts!	He	knew
her	country.	He	knew	her	people.	There	was	a	vine,	still	bearing,	which	either
Lovelace	or	Herrick--she	never	read	a	word	poetry	of	herself,	but	so	the	story
ran--had	sat	under.	Better	wait	to	put	before	them	the	question	that	bothered
her	 (about	 making	 an	 appeal	 to	 the	 public;	 if	 so,	 in	 what	 terms	 and	 so	 on),

better	wait	until	they	have	had	their	coffee,	Lady	Bruton	thought;	and	so	laid
the	carnations	down	beside	her	plate.

"How's	Clarissa?"	she	asked	abruptly.

Clarissa	always	said	that	Lady	Bruton	did	not	like	her.	Indeed,	Lady	Bruton
had	the	reputation	of	being	more	interested	in	politics	than	people;	of	talking
like	a	man;	of	having	had	a	finger	in	some	notorious	intrigue	of	the	eighties,
which	was	now	beginning	to	be	mentioned	in	memoirs.	Certainly	there	was	an
alcove	in	her	drawing-room,	and	a	table	in	that	alcove,	and	a	photograph	upon
that	table	of	General	Sir	Talbot	Moore,	now	deceased,	who	had	written	there
(one	evening	in	the	eighties)	in	Lady	Bruton's	presence,	with	her	cognisance,
perhaps	 advice,	 a	 telegram	 ordering	 the	 British	 troops	 to	 advance	 upon	 an
historical	occasion.	(She	kept	the	pen	and	told	the	story.)	Thus,	when	she	said
in	her	offhand	way	"How's	Clarissa?"	husbands	had	difficulty	in	persuading
their	wives	and	indeed,	however	devoted,	were	secretly	doubtful	themselves,
of	her	interest	in	women	who	often	got	in	their	husbands'	way,	prevented	them
from	accepting	posts	abroad,	and	had	to	be	taken	to	the	seaside	in	the	middle
of	 the	 session	 to	 recover	 from	 influenza.	 Nevertheless	 her	 inquiry,	 "How's
Clarissa?"	was	known	by	women	infallibly,	to	be	a	signal	from	a	well-wisher,
from	an	almost	silent	companion,	whose	utterances	(half	a	dozen	perhaps	in
the	course	of	a	lifetime)	signified	recognition	of	some	feminine	comradeship
which	went	beneath	masculine	lunch	parties	and	united	Lady	Bruton	and	Mrs.
Dalloway,	who	seldom	met,	and	appeared	when	they	did	meet	indifferent	and
even	hostile,	in	a	singular	bond.

"I	met	Clarissa	in	the	Park	this	morning,"	said	Hugh	Whitbread,	diving	into
the	casserole,	anxious	to	pay	himself	this	little	tribute,	for	he	had	only	to	come
to	London	and	he	met	everybody	at	once;	but	greedy,	one	of	the	greediest	men
she	had	ever	known,	Milly	Brush	thought,	who	observed	men	with	unflinching
rectitude,	 and	 was	 capable	 of	 everlasting	 devotion,	 to	 her	 own	 sex	 in
particular,	 being	 knobbed,	 scraped,	 angular,	 and	 entirely	 without	 feminine
charm.

"D'you	know	who's	in	town?"	said	Lady	Bruton	suddenly	bethinking	her.	"Our
old	friend,	Peter	Walsh."

They	all	smiled.	Peter	Walsh!	And	Mr.	Dalloway	was	genuinely	glad,	Milly
Brush	thought;	and	Mr.	Whitbread	thought	only	of	his	chicken.

Peter	Walsh!	All	three,	Lady	Bruton,	Hugh	Whitbread,	and	Richard	Dalloway,
remembered	 the	 same	 thing--how	 passionately	 Peter	 had	 been	 in	 love;	 been
rejected;	gone	to	India;	come	a	cropper;	made	a	mess	of	things;	and	Richard
Dalloway	had	a	very	great	liking	for	the	dear	old	fellow	too.	Milly	Brush	saw

that;	saw	a	depth	in	the	brown	of	his	eyes;	saw	him	hesitate;	consider;	which
interested	 her,	 as	 Mr.	 Dalloway	 always	 interested	 her,	 for	 what	 was	 he
thinking,	she	wondered,	about	Peter	Walsh?

That	 Peter	 Walsh	 had	 been	 in	 love	 with	 Clarissa;	 that	 he	 would	 go	 back
directly	after	lunch	and	find	Clarissa;	that	he	would	tell	her,	in	so	many	words,
that	he	loved	her.	Yes,	he	would	say	that.

Milly	Brush	once	might	almost	have	fallen	in	love	with	these	silences;	and	Mr.
Dalloway	was	always	so	dependable;	such	a	gentleman	too.	Now,	being	forty,
Lady	 Bruton	 had	 only	 to	 nod,	 or	 turn	 her	 head	 a	 little	 abruptly,	 and	 Milly
Brush	took	the	signal,	however	deeply	she	might	be	sunk	in	these	reflections
of	a	detached	spirit,	of	an	uncorrupted	soul	whom	life	could	not	bamboozle,
because	 life	 had	 not	 offered	 her	 a	 trinket	 of	 the	 slightest	 value;	 not	 a	 curl,
smile,	lip,	cheek,	nose;	nothing	whatever;	Lady	Bruton	had	only	to	nod,	and
Perkins	was	instructed	to	quicken	the	coffee.

"Yes;	Peter	Walsh	has	come	back,"	said	Lady	Bruton.	It	was	vaguely	flattering
to	them	all.	He	had	come	back,	battered,	unsuccessful,	to	their	secure	shores.
But	to	help	him,	they	reflected,	was	impossible;	there	was	some	flaw	in	his
character.	Hugh	Whitbread	said	one	might	of	course	mention	his	name	to	So-
and-so.	He	wrinkled	lugubriously,	consequentially,	at	the	thought	of	the	letters
he	would	write	to	the	heads	of	Government	offices	about	"my	old	friend,	Peter
Walsh,"	 and	 so	 on.	 But	 it	 wouldn't	 lead	 to	 anything--not	 to	 anything
permanent,	because	of	his	character.

"In	 trouble	 with	 some	 woman,"	 said	 Lady	 Bruton.	 They	 had	 all	 guessed
that	that	was	at	the	bottom	of	it.

"However,"	said	Lady	Bruton,	anxious	to	leave	the	subject,	"we	shall	hear	the
whole	story	from	Peter	himself."

(The	coffee	was	very	slow	in	coming.)

"The	address?"	murmured	Hugh	Whitbread;	and	there	was	at	once	a	ripple	in
the	 grey	 tide	 of	 service	 which	 washed	 round	 Lady	 Bruton	 day	 in,	 day	 out,
collecting,	 intercepting,	 enveloping	 her	 in	 a	 fine	 tissue	 which	 broke
concussions,	 mitigated	 interruptions,	 and	 spread	 round	 the	 house	 in	 Brook
Street	a	fine	net	where	things	lodged	and	were	picked	out	accurately,	instantly,
by	grey-haired	Perkins,	who	had	been	with	Lady	Bruton	these	thirty	years	and
now	wrote	down	the	address;	handed	it	to	Mr.	Whitbread,	who	took	out	his
pocket-book,	raised	his	eyebrows,	and	slipping	it	in	among	documents	of	the
highest	importance,	said	that	he	would	get	Evelyn	to	ask	him	to	lunch.

(They	were	waiting	to	bring	the	coffee	until	Mr.	Whitbread	had	finished.)

Hugh	was	very	slow,	Lady	Bruton	thought.	He	was	getting	fat,	she	noticed.
Richard	 always	 kept	 himself	 in	 the	 pink	 of	 condition.	 She	 was	 getting
impatient;	 the	 whole	 of	 her	 being	 was	 setting	 positively,	 undeniably,
domineeringly	brushing	aside	all	this	unnecessary	trifling	(Peter	Walsh	and	his
affairs)	 upon	 that	 subject	 which	 engaged	 her	 attention,	 and	 not	 merely	 her
attention,	but	that	fibre	which	was	the	ramrod	of	her	soul,	that	essential	part	of
her	 without	 which	 Millicent	 Bruton	 would	 not	 have	 been	 Millicent	 Bruton;
that	 project	 for	 emigrating	 young	 people	 of	 both	 sexes	 born	 of	 respectable
parents	and	setting	them	up	with	a	fair	prospect	of	doing	well	in	Canada.	She
exaggerated.	She	had	perhaps	lost	her	sense	of	proportion.	Emigration	was	not
to	others	the	obvious	remedy,	the	sublime	conception.	It	was	not	to	them	(not
to	Hugh,	or	Richard,	or	even	to	devoted	Miss	Brush)	the	liberator	of	the	pent
egotism,	 which	 a	 strong	 martial	 woman,	 well	 nourished,	 well	 descended,	 of
direct	impulses,	downright	feelings,	and	little	introspective	power	(broad	and
simple--why	could	not	every	one	be	broad	and	simple?	she	asked)	feels	rise
within	 her,	 once	 youth	 is	 past,	 and	 must	 eject	 upon	 some	 object--it	 may	 be
Emigration,	 it	 may	 be	 Emancipation;	 but	 whatever	 it	 be,	 this	 object	 round
which	the	essence	of	her	soul	is	daily	secreted,	becomes	inevitably	prismatic,
lustrous,	half	looking-glass,	half	precious	stone;	now	carefully	hidden	in	case
people	should	sneer	at	it;	now	proudly	displayed.	Emigration	had	become,	in
short,	largely	Lady	Bruton.

But	 she	 had	 to	 write.	 And	 one	 letter	 to	 the	 Times,	 she	 used	 to	 say	 to	 Miss
Brush,	 cost	 her	 more	 than	 to	 organise	 an	 expedition	 to	 South	 Africa	 (which
she	 had	 done	 in	 the	 war).	 After	 a	 morning's	 battle	 beginning,	 tearing	 up,
beginning	again,	she	used	to	feel	the	futility	of	her	own	womanhood	as	she	felt
it	 on	 no	 other	 occasion,	 and	 would	 turn	 gratefully	 to	 the	 thought	 of	 Hugh
Whitbread	who	possessed--no	one	could	doubt	it--the	art	of	writing	letters	to
the	Times.

A	 being	 so	 differently	 constituted	 from	 herself,	 with	 such	 a	 command	 of
language;	able	to	put	things	as	editors	like	them	put;	had	passions	which	one
could	 not	 call	 simply	 greed.	 Lady	 Bruton	 often	 suspended	 judgement	 upon
men	in	deference	to	the	mysterious	accord	in	which	they,	but	no	woman,	stood
to	the	laws	of	the	universe;	knew	how	to	put	things;	knew	what	was	said;	so
that	 if	 Richard	 advised	 her,	 and	 Hugh	 wrote	 for	 her,	 she	 was	 sure	 of	 being
somehow	 right.	 So	 she	 let	 Hugh	 eat	 his	 soufflé;	 asked	 after	 poor	 Evelyn;
waited	until	they	were	smoking,	and	then	said,

"Milly,	would	you	fetch	the	papers?"

And	 Miss	 Brush	 went	 out,	 came	 back;	 laid	 papers	 on	 the	 table;	 and	 Hugh
produced	 his	 fountain	 pen;	 his	 silver	 fountain	 pen,	 which	 had	 done	 twenty
years'	service,	he	said,	unscrewing	the	cap.	It	was	still	in	perfect	order;	he	had

shown	 it	 to	 the	 makers;	 there	 was	 no	 reason,	 they	 said,	 why	 it	 should	 ever
wear	 out;	 which	 was	 somehow	 to	 Hugh's	 credit,	 and	 to	 the	 credit	 of	 the
sentiments	which	his	pen	expressed	(so	Richard	Dalloway	felt)	as	Hugh	began
carefully	writing	capital	letters	with	rings	round	them	in	the	margin,	and	thus
marvellously	reduced	Lady	Bruton's	tangles	to	sense,	to	grammar	such	as	the
editor	of	the	Times,	Lady	Bruton	felt,	watching	the	marvellous	transformation,
must	respect.	Hugh	was	slow.	Hugh	was	pertinacious.	Richard	said	one	must
take	 risks.	 Hugh	 proposed	 modifications	 in	 deference	 to	 people's	 feelings,
which,	he	said	rather	tartly	when	Richard	laughed,	"had	to	be	considered,"	and
read	 out	 "how,	 therefore,	 we	 are	 of	 opinion	 that	 the	 times	 are	 ripe	 .	 .	 .	 the
superfluous	youth	of	our	ever-increasing	population	.	.	.	what	we	owe	to	the
dead	.	.	."	which	Richard	thought	all	stuffing	and	bunkum,	but	no	harm	in	it,	of
course,	 and	 Hugh	 went	 on	 drafting	 sentiments	 in	 alphabetical	 order	 of	 the
highest	nobility,	brushing	the	cigar	ash	from	his	waistcoat,	and	summing	up
now	and	then	the	progress	they	had	made	until,	finally,	he	read	out	the	draft	of
a	 letter	 which	 Lady	 Bruton	 felt	 certain	 was	 a	 masterpiece.	 Could	 her	 own
meaning	sound	like	that?

Hugh	 could	 not	 guarantee	 that	 the	 editor	 would	 put	 it	 in;	 but	 he	 would	 be
meeting	somebody	at	luncheon.

Whereupon	Lady	Bruton,	who	seldom	did	a	graceful	thing,	stuffed	all	Hugh's
carnations	into	the	front	of	her	dress,	and	flinging	her	hands	out	called	him
"My	Prime	Minister!"	What	she	would	have	done	without	them	both	she	did
not	 know.	 They	 rose.	 And	 Richard	 Dalloway	 strolled	 off	 as	 usual	 to	 have	 a
look	at	the	General's	portrait,	because	he	meant,	whenever	he	had	a	moment	of
leisure,	to	write	a	history	of	Lady	Bruton's	family.

And	Millicent	Bruton	was	very	proud	of	her	family.	But	they	could	wait,	they
could	 wait,	 she	 said,	 looking	 at	 the	 picture;	 meaning	 that	 her	 family,	 of
military	men,	administrators,	admirals,	had	been	men	of	action,	who	had	done
their	duty;	and	Richard's	first	duty	was	to	his	country,	but	it	was	a	fine	face,
she	 said;	 and	 all	 the	 papers	 were	 ready	 for	 Richard	 down	 at	 Aldmixton
whenever	the	time	came;	the	Labour	Government	she	meant.	"Ah,	the	news
from	India!"	she	cried.

And	then,	as	they	stood	in	the	hall	taking	yellow	gloves	from	the	bowl	on	the
malachite	 table	 and	 Hugh	 was	 offering	 Miss	 Brush	 with	 quite	 unnecessary
courtesy	some	discarded	ticket	or	other	compliment,	which	she	loathed	from
the	depths	of	her	heart	and	blushed	brick	red,	Richard	turned	to	Lady	Bruton,
with	his	hat	in	his	hand,	and	said,

"We	shall	see	you	at	our	party	to-night?"	whereupon	Lady	Bruton	resumed	the
magnificence	 which	 letter-writing	 had	 shattered.	 She	 might	 come;	 or	 she

might	not	come.	Clarissa	had	wonderful	energy.	Parties	terrified	Lady	Bruton.
But	 then,	 she	 was	 getting	 old.	 So	 she	 intimated,	 standing	 at	 her	 doorway;
handsome;	very	erect;	while	her	chow	stretched	behind	her,	and	Miss	Brush
disappeared	into	the	background	with	her	hands	full	of	papers.

And	Lady	Bruton	went	ponderously,	majestically,	up	to	her	room,	lay,	one	arm
extended,	on	the	sofa.	She	sighed,	she	snored,	not	that	she	was	asleep,	only
drowsy	and	heavy,	drowsy	and	heavy,	like	a	field	of	clover	in	the	sunshine	this
hot	June	day,	with	the	bees	going	round	and	about	and	the	yellow	butterflies.
Always	 she	 went	 back	 to	 those	 fields	 down	 in	 Devonshire,	 where	 she	 had
jumped	the	brooks	on	Patty,	her	pony,	with	Mortimer	and	Tom,	her	brothers.
And	there	were	the	dogs;	there	were	the	rats;	there	were	her	father	and	mother
on	the	lawn	under	the	trees,	with	the	tea-things	out,	and	the	beds	of	dahlias,
the	hollyhocks,	the	pampas	grass;	and	they,	little	wretches,	always	up	to	some
mischief!	 stealing	 back	 through	 the	 shrubbery,	 so	 as	 not	 to	 be	 seen,	 all
bedraggled	from	some	roguery.	What	old	nurse	used	to	say	about	her	frocks!

Ah	 dear,	 she	 remembered--it	 was	 Wednesday	 in	 Brook	 Street.	 Those	 kind
good	 fellows,	 Richard	 Dalloway,	 Hugh	 Whitbread,	 had	 gone	 this	 hot	 day
through	the	streets	whose	growl	came	up	to	her	lying	on	the	sofa.	Power	was
hers,	position,	income.	She	had	lived	in	the	forefront	of	her	time.	She	had	had
good	friends;	known	the	ablest	men	of	her	day.	Murmuring	London	flowed	up
to	 her,	 and	 her	 hand,	 lying	 on	 the	 sofa	 back,	 curled	 upon	 some	 imaginary
baton	such	as	her	grandfathers	might	have	held,	holding	which	she	seemed,
drowsy	 and	 heavy,	 to	 be	 commanding	 battalions	 marching	 to	 Canada,	 and
those	good	fellows	walking	across	London,	that	territory	of	theirs,	that	little	bit
of	carpet,	Mayfair.

And	they	went	further	and	further	from	her,	being	attached	to	her	by	a	thin
thread	(since	they	had	lunched	with	her)	which	would	stretch	and	stretch,	get
thinner	 and	 thinner	 as	 they	 walked	 across	 London;	 as	 if	 one's	 friends	 were
attached	to	one's	body,	after	lunching	with	them,	by	a	thin	thread,	which	(as
she	 dozed	 there)	 became	 hazy	 with	 the	 sound	 of	 bells,	 striking	 the	 hour	 or
ringing	to	service,	as	a	single	spider's	thread	is	blotted	with	rain-drops,	and,
burdened,	sags	down.	So	she	slept.

And	Richard	Dalloway	and	Hugh	Whitbread	hesitated	at	the	corner	of	Conduit
Street	 at	 the	 very	 moment	 that	 Millicent	 Bruton,	 lying	 on	 the	 sofa,	 let	 the
thread	snap;	snored.	Contrary	winds	buffeted	at	the	street	corner.	They	looked
in	at	a	shop	window;	they	did	not	wish	to	buy	or	to	talk	but	to	part,	only	with
contrary	winds	buffeting	the	street	corner,	with	some	sort	of	lapse	in	the	tides
of	 the	 body,	 two	 forces	 meeting	 in	 a	 swirl,	 morning	 and	 afternoon,	 they
paused.	 Some	 newspaper	 placard	 went	 up	 in	 the	 air,	 gallantly,	 like	 a	 kite	 at
first,	then	paused,	swooped,	fluttered;	and	a	lady's	veil	hung.	Yellow	awnings

trembled.	The	speed	of	the	morning	traffic	slackened,	and	single	carts	rattled
carelessly	 down	 half-empty	 streets.	 In	 Norfolk,	 of	 which	 Richard	 Dalloway
was	half	thinking,	a	soft	warm	wind	blew	back	the	petals;	confused	the	waters;
ruffled	the	flowering	grasses.	Haymakers,	who	had	pitched	beneath	hedges	to
sleep	away	the	morning	toil,	parted	curtains	of	green	blades;	moved	trembling
globes	 of	 cow	 parsley	 to	 see	 the	 sky;	 the	 blue,	 the	 steadfast,	 the	 blazing
summer	sky.

Aware	 that	 he	 was	 looking	 at	 a	 silver	 two-handled	 Jacobean	 mug,	 and	 that
Hugh	 Whitbread	 admired	 condescendingly	 with	 airs	 of	 connoisseurship	 a
Spanish	necklace	which	he	thought	of	asking	the	price	of	in	case	Evelyn	might
like	it--still	Richard	was	torpid;	could	not	think	or	move.	Life	had	thrown	up
this	wreckage;	shop	windows	full	of	coloured	paste,	and	one	stood	stark	with
the	 lethargy	 of	 the	 old,	 stiff	 with	 the	 rigidity	 of	 the	 old,	 looking	 in.	 Evelyn
Whitbread	 might	 like	 to	 buy	 this	 Spanish	 necklace--so	 she	 might.	 Yawn	 he
must.	Hugh	was	going	into	the	shop.

"Right	you	are!"	said	Richard,	following.

Goodness	knows	he	didn't	want	to	go	buying	necklaces	with	Hugh.	But	there
are	tides	in	the	body.	Morning	meets	afternoon.	Borne	like	a	frail	shallop	on
deep,	 deep	 floods,	 Lady	 Bruton's	 great-grandfather	 and	 his	 memoir	 and	 his
campaigns	in	North	America	were	whelmed	and	sunk.	And	Millicent	Bruton
too.	She	went	under.	Richard	didn't	care	a	straw	what	became	of	Emigration;
about	 that	 letter,	 whether	 the	 editor	 put	 it	 in	 or	 not.	 The	 necklace	 hung
stretched	 between	 Hugh's	 admirable	 fingers.	 Let	 him	 give	 it	 to	 a	 girl,	 if	 he
must	buy	jewels--any	girl,	any	girl	in	the	street.	For	the	worthlessness	of	this
life	did	strike	Richard	pretty	forcibly--buying	necklaces	for	Evelyn.	If	he'd	had
a	 boy	 he'd	 have	 said,	 Work,	 work.	 But	 he	 had	 his	 Elizabeth;	 he	 adored	 his
Elizabeth.

"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
together;	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	perfectly	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	himself	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	tissue	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	all	their	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	 Piccadilly	 alone.	 The	 police	 ought	 to
have	stopped	the	traffic	at	once.	He	had	no	illusions	about	the	London	police.
Indeed,	 he	 was	 collecting	 evidence	 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	summer	months	should	be	open	to	children	(the
grass	 of	 the	 park	 flushed	 and	 faded,	 lighting	 up	 the	 poor	 mothers	 of
Westminster	 and	 their	 crawling	 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	 curiously,	 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	 problem	 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	audience	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	 remember	 in	 her	 horn	 spectacles	 driving
through	Kensington),	its	white	mound,	its	billowing	motherliness;	but	he	liked
being	ruled	by	the	descendant	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,	 distractingly,	 something	 fumbling,	 something
scratching	at	the	door.	Who	at	this	hour?	Three,	good	Heavens!	Three	already!
For	with	overpowering	directness	and	dignity	the	clock	struck	three;	and	she
heard	nothing	else;	but	the	door	handle	slipped	round	and	in	came	Richard!
What	a	surprise!	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	understood
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	Kilman	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	going	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,	shutting	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	theTimes	for	Millicent	Bruton.	That	was	about	all	Hugh	was
fit	for.

"And	our	dear	Miss	Kilman?"	he	asked.	Clarissa	thought	the	roses	absolutely
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,	divine	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	 bickering.	 He	 was	 already
halfway	to	the	House	of	Commons,	to	his	Armenians,	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,
having	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	 another;	 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	criticised	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	woman?	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	contrary,	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	understand,	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	condescending.	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	happier	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	read	history.	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,"	 Elizabeth	 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	comfort	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	assuaged	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
mackintosh,	 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	desire	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	 knees	 crying,	 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	woman	had
taken	 her	 daughter	 from	 her!	 She	 in	 touch	 with	 invisible	 presences!	 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	going	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	 prehistoric	 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.

jealous,	

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,	
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	 upstairs	 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	looking	out	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	destroy	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	Addison,	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	Elizabeth	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	 ordinary	 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	mystery;	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	mystery	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
religion	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	telephone	now	at	once.

Volubly,	 troublously,	 the	 late	 clock	 sounded,	 coming	 in	 on	 the	 wake	 of	 Big
Ben,	 with	 its	 lap	 full	 of	 trifles.	 Beaten	 up,	 broken	 up	 by	 the	 assault	 of
carriages,	the	brutality	of	vans,	the	eager	advance	of	myriads	of	angular	men,
of	 flaunting	 women,	 the	 domes	 and	 spires	 of	 offices	 and	 hospitals,	 the	 last
relics	of	this	lap	full	of	odds	and	ends	seemed	to	break,	like	the	spray	of	an
exhausted	wave,	upon	the	body	of	Miss	Kilman	standing	still	in	the	street	for	a
moment	to	mutter	"It	is	the	flesh."

It	was	the	flesh	that	she	must	control.	Clarissa	Dalloway	had	insulted	her.	That
she	expected.	But	she	had	not	triumphed;	she	had	not	mastered	the	flesh.	Ugly,
clumsy,	Clarissa	Dalloway	had	laughed	at	her	for	being	that;	and	had	revived
the	 fleshly	 desires,	 for	 she	 minded	 looking	 as	 she	 did	 beside	 Clarissa.	 Nor
could	she	talk	as	she	did.	But	why	wish	to	resemble	her?	Why?	She	despised
Mrs.	Dalloway	from	the	bottom	of	her	heart.	She	was	not	serious.	She	was	not
good.	Her	life	was	a	tissue	of	vanity	and	deceit.	Yet	Doris	Kilman	had	been
overcome.	 She	 had,	 as	 a	 matter	 of	 fact,	 very	 nearly	 burst	 into	 tears	 when
Clarissa	Dalloway	laughed	at	her.	"It	is	the	flesh,	it	is	the	flesh,"	she	muttered
(it	 being	 her	 habit	 to	 talk	 aloud)	 trying	 to	 subdue	 this	 turbulent	 and	 painful
feeling	as	she	walked	down	Victoria	Street.	She	prayed	to	God.	She	could	not
help	being	ugly;	she	could	not	afford	to	buy	pretty	clothes.	Clarissa	Dalloway
had	laughed--but	she	would	concentrate	her	mind	upon	something	else	until
she	 had	 reached	 the	 pillar-box.	 At	 any	 rate	 she	 had	 got	 Elizabeth.	 But	 she
would	think	of	something	else;	she	would	think	of	Russia;	until	she	reached
the	pillar-box.

How	nice	it	must	be,	she	said,	in	the	country,	struggling,	as	Mr.	Whittaker	had
told	 her,	 with	 that	 violent	 grudge	 against	 the	 world	 which	 had	 scorned	 her,
sneered	at	her,	cast	her	off,	beginning	with	this	indignity--the	infliction	of	her

unlovable	body	which	people	could	not	bear	to	see.	Do	her	hair	as	she	might,
her	 forehead	 remained	 like	 an	 egg,	 bald,	 white.	 No	 clothes	 suited	 her.	 She
might	buy	anything.	And	for	a	woman,	of	course,	that	meant	never	meeting
the	opposite	sex.	Never	would	she	come	first	with	any	one.	Sometimes	lately
it	had	seemed	to	her	that,	except	for	Elizabeth,	her	food	was	all	that	she	lived
for;	 her	 comforts;	 her	 dinner,	 her	 tea;	 her	 hot-water	 bottle	 at	 night.	 But	 one
must	fight;	vanquish;	have	faith	in	God.	Mr.	Whittaker	had	said	she	was	there
for	a	purpose.	But	no	one	knew	the	agony!	He	said,	pointing	to	the	crucifix,
that	 God	 knew.	 But	 why	 should	 she	 have	 to	 suffer	 when	 other	 women,	 like
Clarissa	 Dalloway,	 escaped?	 Knowledge	 comes	 through	 suffering,	 said	 Mr.
Whittaker.

She	had	passed	the	pillar-box,	and	Elizabeth	had	turned	into	the	cool	brown
tobacco	department	of	the	Army	and	Navy	Stores	while	she	was	still	muttering
to	 herself	 what	 Mr.	 Whittaker	 had	 said	 about	 knowledge	 coming	 through
suffering	and	the	flesh.	"The	flesh,"	she	muttered.

What	department	did	she	want?	Elizabeth	interrupted	her.

"Petticoats,"	she	said	abruptly,	and	stalked	straight	on	to	the	lift.

Up	 they	 went.	 Elizabeth	 guided	 her	 this	 way	 and	 that;	 guided	 her	 in	 her
abstraction	as	if	she	had	been	a	great	child,	an	unwieldy	battleship.	There	were
the	 petticoats,	 brown,	 decorous,	 striped,	 frivolous,	 solid,	 flimsy;	 and	 she
chose,	in	her	abstraction,	portentously,	and	the	girl	serving	thought	her	mad.

Elizabeth	rather	wondered,	as	they	did	up	the	parcel,	what	Miss	Kilman	was
thinking.	 They	 must	 have	 their	 tea,	 said	 Miss	 Kilman,	 rousing,	 collecting
herself.	They	had	their	tea.

Elizabeth	rather	wondered	whether	Miss	Kilman	could	be	hungry.	It	was	her
way	of	eating,	eating	with	intensity,	then	looking,	again	and	again,	at	a	plate	of
sugared	cakes	on	the	table	next	them;	then,	when	a	lady	and	a	child	sat	down
and	 the	 child	 took	 the	 cake,	 could	 Miss	 Kilman	 really	 mind	 it?	 Yes,	 Miss
Kilman	did	mind	it.	She	had	wanted	that	cake--the	pink	one.	The	pleasure	of
eating	was	almost	the	only	pure	pleasure	left	her,	and	then	to	be	baffled	even
in	that!

When	 people	 are	 happy,	 they	 have	 a	 reserve,	 she	 had	 told	 Elizabeth,	 upon
which	to	draw,	whereas	she	was	like	a	wheel	without	a	tyre	(she	was	fond	of
such	metaphors),	jolted	by	every	pebble,	so	she	would	say	staying	on	after	the
lesson	 standing	 by	 the	 fire-place	 with	 her	 bag	 of	 books,	 her	 "satchel,"	 she
called	it,	on	a	Tuesday	morning,	after	the	lesson	was	over.	And	she	talked	too
about	 the	 war.	 After	 all,	 there	 were	 people	 who	 did	 not	 think	 the	 English
invariably	 right.	 There	 were	 books.	 There	 were	 meetings.	 There	 were	 other

points	of	view.	Would	Elizabeth	like	to	come	with	her	to	listen	to	So-and-so	(a
most	 extraordinary	 looking	 old	 man)?	 Then	 Miss	 Kilman	 took	 her	 to	 some
church	 in	 Kensington	 and	 they	 had	 tea	 with	 a	 clergyman.	 She	 had	 lent	 her
books.	 Law,	 medicine,	 politics,	 all	 professions	 are	 open	 to	 women	 of	 your
generation,	said	Miss	Kilman.	But	for	herself,	her	career	was	absolutely	ruined
and	was	it	her	fault?	Good	gracious,	said	Elizabeth,	no.

And	 her	 mother	 would	 come	 calling	 to	 say	 that	 a	 hamper	 had	 come	 from
Bourton	and	would	Miss	Kilman	like	some	flowers?	To	Miss	Kilman	she	was
always	very,	very	nice,	but	Miss	Kilman	squashed	the	flowers	all	in	a	bunch,
and	hadn't	any	small	talk,	and	what	interested	Miss	Kilman	bored	her	mother,
and	Miss	Kilman	and	she	were	terrible	together;	and	Miss	Kilman	swelled	and
looked	very	plain.	But	then	Miss	Kilman	was	frightfully	clever.	Elizabeth	had
never	 thought	 about	 the	 poor.	 They	 lived	 with	 everything	 they	 wanted,--her
mother	had	breakfast	in	bed	every	day;	Lucy	carried	it	up;	and	she	liked	old
women	because	they	were	Duchesses,	and	being	descended	from	some	Lord.
But	Miss	Kilman	said	(one	of	those	Tuesday	mornings	when	the	lesson	was
over),	 "My	 grandfather	 kept	 an	 oil	 and	 colour	 shop	 in	 Kensington."	 Miss
Kilman	made	one	feel	so	small.

Miss	Kilman	took	another	cup	of	tea.	Elizabeth,	with	her	oriental	bearing,	her
inscrutable	mystery,	sat	perfectly	upright;	no,	she	did	not	want	anything	more.
She	looked	for	her	gloves--her	white	gloves.	They	were	under	the	table.	Ah,
but	she	must	not	go!	Miss	Kilman	could	not	let	her	go!	this	youth,	that	was	so
beautiful,	 this	 girl,	 whom	 she	 genuinely	 loved!	 Her	 large	 hand	 opened	 and
shut	on	the	table.

But	perhaps	it	was	a	little	flat	somehow,	Elizabeth	felt.	And	really	she	would
like	to	go.

But	said	Miss	Kilman,	"I've	not	quite	finished	yet."

Of	course,	then,	Elizabeth	would	wait.	But	it	was	rather	stuffy	in	here.

"Are	you	going	to	the	party	to-night?"	Miss	Kilman	said.	Elizabeth	supposed
she	was	going;	her	mother	wanted	her	to	go.	She	must	not	let	parties	absorb
her,	Miss	Kilman	said,	fingering	the	last	two	inches	of	a	chocolate	éclair.

She	did	not	much	like	parties,	Elizabeth	said.	Miss	Kilman	opened	her	mouth,
slightly	 projected	 her	 chin,	 and	 swallowed	 down	 the	 last	 inches	 of	 the
chocolate	éclair,	then	wiped	her	fingers,	and	washed	the	tea	round	in	her	cup.

She	was	about	to	split	asunder,	she	felt.	The	agony	was	so	terrific.	If	she	could
grasp	 her,	 if	 she	 could	 clasp	 her,	 if	 she	 could	 make	 her	 hers	 absolutely	 and
forever	and	then	die;	that	was	all	she	wanted.	But	to	sit	here,	unable	to	think	of

anything	to	say;	to	see	Elizabeth	turning	against	her;	to	be	felt	repulsive	even
by	 her--it	 was	 too	 much;	 she	 could	 not	 stand	 it.	 The	 thick	 fingers	 curled
inwards.

"I	never	go	to	parties,"	said	Miss	Kilman,	just	to	keep	Elizabeth	from	going.
"People	don't	ask	me	to	parties"--and	she	knew	as	she	said	it	that	it	was	this
egotism	that	was	her	undoing;	Mr.	Whittaker	had	warned	her;	but	she	could
not	help	it.	She	had	suffered	so	horribly.	"Why	should	they	ask	me?"	she	said.
"I'm	plain,	I'm	unhappy."	She	knew	it	was	idiotic.	But	it	was	all	those	people
passing--people	with	parcels	who	despised	her,	who	made	her	say	it.	However,
she	was	Doris	Kilman.	She	had	her	degree.	She	was	a	woman	who	had	made
her	 way	 in	 the	 world.	 Her	 knowledge	 of	 modern	 history	 was	 more	 than
respectable.

"I	don't	pity	myself,"	she	said.	"I	pity"--she	meant	to	say	"your	mother"	but	no,
she	could	not,	not	to	Elizabeth.	"I	pity	other	people,"	she	said,	"more."

Like	some	dumb	creature	who	has	been	brought	up	to	a	gate	for	an	unknown
purpose,	 and	 stands	 there	 longing	 to	 gallop	 away,	 Elizabeth	 Dalloway	 sat
silent.	Was	Miss	Kilman	going	to	say	anything	more?

"Don't	quite	forget	me,"	said	Doris	Kilman;	her	voice	quivered.	Right	away	to
the	end	of	the	field	the	dumb	creature	galloped	in	terror.

The	great	hand	opened	and	shut.

Elizabeth	 turned	 her	 head.	 The	 waitress	 came.	 One	 had	 to	 pay	 at	 the	 desk,
Elizabeth	 said,	 and	 went	 off,	 drawing	 out,	 so	 Miss	 Kilman	 felt,	 the	 very
entrails	in	her	body,	stretching	them	as	she	crossed	the	room,	and	then,	with	a
final	twist,	bowing	her	head	very	politely,	she	went.

She	had	gone.	Miss	Kilman	sat	at	the	marble	table	among	the	éclairs,	stricken
once,	twice,	thrice	by	shocks	of	suffering.	She	had	gone.	Mrs.	Dalloway	had
triumphed.	Elizabeth	had	gone.	Beauty	had	gone,	youth	had	gone.

So	she	sat.	She	got	up,	blundered	off	among	the	little	tables,	rocking	slightly
from	side	to	side,	and	somebody	came	after	her	with	her	petticoat,	and	she	lost
her	way,	and	was	hemmed	in	by	trunks	specially	prepared	for	taking	to	India;
next	 got	 among	 the	 accouchement	 sets,	 and	 baby	 linen;	 through	 all	 the
commodities	 of	 the	 world,	 perishable	 and	 permanent,	 hams,	 drugs,	 flowers,
stationery,	variously	smelling,	now	sweet,	now	sour	she	lurched;	saw	herself
thus	lurching	with	her	hat	askew,	very	red	in	the	face,	full	length	in	a	looking-
glass;	and	at	last	came	out	into	the	street.

The	tower	of	Westminster	Cathedral	rose	in	front	of	her,	the	habitation	of	God.

In	the	midst	of	the	traffic,	there	was	the	habitation	of	God.	Doggedly	she	set
off	with	her	parcel	to	that	other	sanctuary,	the	Abbey,	where,	raising	her	hands
in	 a	 tent	 before	 her	 face,	 she	 sat	 beside	 those	 driven	 into	 shelter	 too;	 the
variously	assorted	worshippers,	now	divested	of	social	rank,	almost	of	sex,	as
they	 raised	 their	 hands	 before	 their	 faces;	 but	 once	 they	 removed	 them,
instantly	 reverent,	 middle	 class,	 English	 men	 and	 women,	 some	 of	 them
desirous	of	seeing	the	wax	works.

But	Miss	Kilman	held	her	tent	before	her	face.	Now	she	was	deserted;	now
rejoined.	New	worshippers	came	in	from	the	street	to	replace	the	strollers,	and
still,	 as	 people	 gazed	 round	 and	 shuffled	 past	 the	 tomb	 of	 the	 Unknown
Warrior,	 still	 she	 barred	 her	 eyes	 with	 her	 fingers	 and	 tried	 in	 this	 double
darkness,	for	the	light	in	the	Abbey	was	bodiless,	to	aspire	above	the	vanities,
the	 desires,	 the	 commodities,	 to	 rid	 herself	 both	 of	 hatred	 and	 of	 love.	 Her
hands	twitched.	She	seemed	to	struggle.	Yet	to	others	God	was	accessible	and
the	path	to	Him	smooth.	Mr.	Fletcher,	retired,	of	the	Treasury,	Mrs.	Gorham,
widow	 of	 the	 famous	 K.C.,	 approached	 Him	 simply,	 and	 having	 done	 their
praying,	 leant	 back,	 enjoyed	 the	 music	 (the	 organ	 pealed	 sweetly),	 and	 saw
Miss	Kilman	at	the	end	of	the	row,	praying,	praying,	and,	being	still	on	the
threshold	 of	 their	 underworld,	 thought	 of	 her	 sympathetically	 as	 a	 soul
haunting	 the	 same	 territory;	 a	 soul	 cut	 out	 of	 immaterial	 substance;	 not	 a
woman,	a	soul.

But	Mr.	Fletcher	had	to	go.	He	had	to	pass	her,	and	being	himself	neat	as	a
new	pin,	could	not	help	being	a	little	distressed	by	the	poor	lady's	disorder;	her
hair	down;	her	parcel	on	the	floor.	She	did	not	at	once	let	him	pass.	But,	as	he
stood	 gazing	 about	 him,	 at	 the	 white	 marbles,	 grey	 window	 panes,	 and
accumulated	 treasures	 (for	 he	 was	 extremely	 proud	 of	 the	 Abbey),	 her
largeness,	robustness,	and	power	as	she	sat	there	shifting	her	knees	from	time
to	 time	 (it	 was	 so	 rough	 the	 approach	 to	 her	 God--so	 tough	 her	 desires)
impressed	him,	as	they	had	impressed	Mrs.	Dalloway	(she	could	not	get	the
thought	of	her	out	of	her	mind	that	afternoon),	the	Rev.	Edward	Whittaker,	and
Elizabeth	too.

And	Elizabeth	waited	in	Victoria	Street	for	an	omnibus.	It	was	so	nice	to	be
out	of	doors.	She	thought	perhaps	she	need	not	go	home	just	yet.	It	was	so	nice
to	be	out	in	the	air.	So	she	would	get	on	to	an	omnibus.	And	already,	even	as
she	stood	there,	in	her	very	well	cut	clothes,	it	was	beginning.	.	.	.	People	were
beginning	 to	 compare	 her	 to	 poplar	 trees,	 early	 dawn,	 hyacinths,	 fawns,
running	water,	and	garden	lilies;	and	it	made	her	life	a	burden	to	her,	for	she	so
much	preferred	being	left	alone	to	do	what	she	liked	in	the	country,	but	they
would	compare	her	to	lilies,	and	she	had	to	go	to	parties,	and	London	was	so
dreary	compared	with	being	alone	in	the	country	with	her	father	and	the	dogs.

Buses	 swooped,	 settled,	 were	 off--garish	 caravans,	 glistening	 with	 red	 and
yellow	varnish.	But	which	should	she	get	on	to?	She	had	no	preferences.	Of
course,	 she	 would	 not	 push	 her	 way.	 She	 inclined	 to	 be	 passive.	 It	 was
expression	she	needed,	but	her	eyes	were	fine,	Chinese,	oriental,	and,	as	her
mother	said,	with	such	nice	shoulders	and	holding	herself	so	straight,	she	was
always	charming	to	look	at;	and	lately,	in	the	evening	especially,	when	she	was
interested,	 for	 she	 never	 seemed	 excited,	 she	 looked	 almost	 beautiful,	 very
stately,	very	serene.	What	could	she	be	thinking?	Every	man	fell	in	love	with
her,	and	she	was	really	awfully	bored.	For	it	was	beginning.	Her	mother	could
see	that--the	compliments	were	beginning.	That	she	did	not	care	more	about	it-
-for	instance	for	her	clothes--sometimes	worried	Clarissa,	but	perhaps	it	was
as	well	with	all	those	puppies	and	guinea	pigs	about	having	distemper,	and	it
gave	her	a	charm.	And	now	there	was	this	odd	friendship	with	Miss	Kilman.
Well,	 thought	 Clarissa	 about	 three	 o'clock	 in	 the	 morning,	 reading	 Baron
Marbot	for	she	could	not	sleep,	it	proves	she	has	a	heart.

Suddenly	 Elizabeth	 stepped	 forward	 and	 most	 competently	 boarded	 the
omnibus,	 in	 front	 of	 everybody.	 She	 took	 a	 seat	 on	 top.	 The	 impetuous
creature--a	 pirate--started	 forward,	 sprang	 away;	 she	 had	 to	 hold	 the	 rail	 to
steady	 herself,	 for	 a	 pirate	 it	 was,	 reckless,	 unscrupulous,	 bearing	 down
ruthlessly,	 circumventing	 dangerously,	 boldly	 snatching	 a	 passenger,	 or
ignoring	 a	 passenger,	 squeezing	 eel-like	 and	 arrogant	 in	 between,	 and	 then
rushing	insolently	all	sails	spread	up	Whitehall.	And	did	Elizabeth	give	one
thought	 to	 poor	 Miss	 Kilman	 who	 loved	 her	 without	 jealousy,	 to	 whom	 she
had	been	a	fawn	in	the	open,	a	moon	in	a	glade?	She	was	delighted	to	be	free.
The	fresh	air	was	so	delicious.	It	had	been	so	stuffy	in	the	Army	and	Navy
Stores.	And	now	it	was	like	riding,	to	be	rushing	up	Whitehall;	and	to	each
movement	 of	 the	 omnibus	 the	 beautiful	 body	 in	 the	 fawn-coloured	 coat
responded	 freely	 like	 a	 rider,	 like	 the	 figure-head	 of	 a	 ship,	 for	 the	 breeze
slightly	 disarrayed	 her;	 the	 heat	 gave	 her	 cheeks	 the	 pallor	 of	 white	 painted
wood;	and	her	fine	eyes,	having	no	eyes	to	meet,	gazed	ahead,	blank,	bright,
with	the	staring	incredible	innocence	of	sculpture.

It	 was	 always	 talking	 about	 her	 own	 sufferings	 that	 made	 Miss	 Kilman	 so
difficult.	 And	 was	 she	 right?	 If	 it	 was	 being	 on	 committees	 and	 giving	 up
hours	and	hours	every	day	(she	hardly	ever	saw	him	in	London)	that	helped
the	poor,	her	father	did	that,	goodness	knows,--if	that	was	what	Miss	Kilman
meant	about	being	a	Christian;	but	it	was	so	difficult	to	say.	Oh,	she	would	like
to	go	a	little	further.	Another	penny	was	it	to	the	Strand?	Here	was	another
penny	then.	She	would	go	up	the	Strand.

She	liked	people	who	were	ill.	And	every	profession	is	open	to	the	women	of
your	generation,	said	Miss	Kilman.	So	she	might	be	a	doctor.	She	might	be	a

farmer.	Animals	are	often	ill.	She	might	own	a	thousand	acres	and	have	people
under	 her.	 She	 would	 go	 and	 see	 them	 in	 their	 cottages.	 This	 was	 Somerset
House.	One	might	be	a	very	good	farmer--and	that,	strangely	enough	though
Miss	Kilman	had	her	share	in	it,	was	almost	entirely	due	to	Somerset	House.	It
looked	 so	 splendid,	 so	 serious,	 that	 great	 grey	 building.	 And	 she	 liked	 the
feeling	of	people	working.	She	liked	those	churches,	like	shapes	of	grey	paper,
breasting	 the	 stream	 of	 the	 Strand.	 It	 was	 quite	 different	 here	 from
Westminster,	she	thought,	getting	off	at	Chancery	Lane.	It	was	so	serious;	it
was	so	busy.	In	short,	she	would	like	to	have	a	profession.	She	would	become
a	doctor,	a	farmer,	possibly	go	into	Parliament,	if	she	found	it	necessary,	all
because	of	the	Strand.

The	 feet	 of	 those	 people	 busy	 about	 their	 activities,	 hands	 putting	 stone	 to
stone,	minds	eternally	occupied	not	with	trivial	chatterings	(comparing	women
to	 poplars--which	 was	 rather	 exciting,	 of	 course,	 but	 very	 silly),	 but	 with
thoughts	 of	 ships,	 of	 business,	 of	 law,	 of	 administration,	 and	 with	 it	 all	 so
stately	(she	was	in	the	Temple),	gay	(there	was	the	river),	pious	(there	was	the
Church),	 made	 her	 quite	 determined,	 whatever	 her	 mother	 might	 say,	 to
become	either	a	farmer	or	a	doctor.	But	she	was,	of	course,	rather	lazy.

And	it	was	much	better	to	say	nothing	about	it.	It	seemed	so	silly.	It	was	the
sort	 of	 thing	 that	 did	 sometimes	 happen,	 when	 one	 was	 alone--buildings
without	architects'	names,	crowds	of	people	coming	back	from	the	city	having
more	power	than	single	clergymen	in	Kensington,	than	any	of	the	books	Miss
Kilman	had	lent	her,	to	stimulate	what	lay	slumbrous,	clumsy,	and	shy	on	the
mind's	sandy	floor	to	break	surface,	as	a	child	suddenly	stretches	its	arms;	it
was	just	that,	perhaps,	a	sigh,	a	stretch	of	the	arms,	an	impulse,	a	revelation,
which	has	its	effects	for	ever,	and	then	down	again	it	went	to	the	sandy	floor.
She	must	go	home.	She	must	dress	for	dinner.	But	what	was	the	time?--where
was	a	clock?

She	 looked	 up	 Fleet	 Street.	 She	 walked	 just	 a	 little	 way	 towards	 St.	 Paul's,
shyly,	like	some	one	penetrating	on	tiptoe,	exploring	a	strange	house	by	night
with	a	candle,	on	edge	lest	the	owner	should	suddenly	fling	wide	his	bedroom
door	 and	 ask	 her	 business,	 nor	 did	 she	 dare	 wander	 off	 into	 queer	 alleys,
tempting	 bye-streets,	 any	 more	 than	 in	 a	 strange	 house	 open	 doors	 which
might	be	bedroom	doors,	or	sitting-room	doors,	or	lead	straight	to	the	larder.
For	 no	 Dalloways	 came	 down	 the	 Strand	 daily;	 she	 was	 a	 pioneer,	 a	 stray,
venturing,	trusting.

In	many	ways,	her	mother	felt,	she	was	extremely	immature,	like	a	child	still,
attached	to	dolls,	to	old	slippers;	a	perfect	baby;	and	that	was	charming.	But
then,	 of	 course,	 there	 was	 in	 the	 Dalloway	 family	 the	 tradition	 of	 public
service.	 Abbesses,	 principals,	 head	 mistresses,	 dignitaries,	 in	 the	 republic	 of

women--without	being	brilliant,	any	of	them,	they	were	that.	She	penetrated	a
little	further	in	the	direction	of	St.	Paul's.	She	liked	the	geniality,	sisterhood,
motherhood,	brotherhood	of	this	uproar.	It	seemed	to	her	good.	The	noise	was
tremendous;	 and	 suddenly	 there	 were	 trumpets	 (the	 unemployed)	 blaring,
rattling	about	in	the	uproar;	military	music;	as	if	people	were	marching;	yet
had	 they	 been	 dying--had	 some	 woman	 breathed	 her	 last	 and	 whoever	 was
watching,	opening	the	window	of	the	room	where	she	had	just	brought	off	that
act	of	supreme	dignity,	looked	down	on	Fleet	Street,	that	uproar,	that	military
music	would	have	come	triumphing	up	to	him,	consolatory,	indifferent.

It	was	not	conscious.	There	was	no	recognition	in	it	of	one	fortune,	or	fate,	and
for	that	very	reason	even	to	those	dazed	with	watching	for	the	last	shivers	of
consciousness	 on	 the	 faces	 of	 the	 dying,	 consoling.	 Forgetfulness	 in	 people
might	wound,	their	ingratitude	corrode,	but	this	voice,	pouring	endlessly,	year
in	year	out,	would	take	whatever	it	might	be;	this	vow;	this	van;	this	life;	this
procession,	 would	 wrap	 them	 all	 about	 and	 carry	 them	 on,	 as	 in	 the	 rough
stream	 of	 a	 glacier	 the	 ice	 holds	 a	 splinter	 of	 bone,	 a	 blue	 petal,	 some	 oak
trees,	and	rolls	them	on.

But	 it	 was	 later	 than	 she	 thought.	 Her	 mother	 would	 not	 like	 her	 to	 be
wandering	off	alone	like	this.	She	turned	back	down	the	Strand.

A	puff	of	wind	(in	spite	of	the	heat,	there	was	quite	a	wind)	blew	a	thin	black
veil	 over	 the	 sun	 and	 over	 the	 Strand.	 The	 faces	 faded;	 the	 omnibuses
suddenly	lost	their	glow.	For	although	the	clouds	were	of	mountainous	white
so	 that	 one	 could	 fancy	 hacking	 hard	 chips	 off	 with	 a	 hatchet,	 with	 broad
golden	slopes,	lawns	of	celestial	pleasure	gardens,	on	their	flanks,	and	had	all
the	 appearance	 of	 settled	 habitations	 assembled	 for	 the	 conference	 of	 gods
above	 the	 world,	 there	 was	 a	 perpetual	 movement	 among	 them.	 Signs	 were
interchanged,	 when,	 as	 if	 to	 fulfil	 some	 scheme	 arranged	 already,	 now	 a
summit	 dwindled,	 now	 a	 whole	 block	 of	 pyramidal	 size	 which	 had	 kept	 its
station	 inalterably	 advanced	 into	 the	 midst	 or	 gravely	 led	 the	 procession	 to
fresh	 anchorage.	 Fixed	 though	 they	 seemed	 at	 their	 posts,	 at	 rest	 in	 perfect
unanimity,	nothing	could	be	fresher,	freer,	more	sensitive	superficially	than	the
snow-white	or	gold-kindled	surface;	to	change,	to	go,	to	dismantle	the	solemn
assemblage	 was	 immediately	 possible;	 and	 in	 spite	 of	 the	 grave	 fixity,	 the
accumulated	robustness	and	solidity,	now	they	struck	light	to	the	earth,	now
darkness.

Calmly	 and	 competently,	 Elizabeth	 Dalloway	 mounted	 the	 Westminster
omnibus.

Going	and	coming,	beckoning,	signalling,	so	the	light	and	shadow	which	now
made	the	wall	grey,	now	the	bananas	bright	yellow,	now	made	the	Strand	grey,

now	 made	 the	 omnibuses	 bright	 yellow,	 seemed	 to	 Septimus	 Warren	 Smith
lying	on	the	sofa	in	the	sitting-room;	watching	the	watery	gold	glow	and	fade
with	the	astonishing	sensibility	of	some	live	creature	on	the	roses,	on	the	wall-
paper.	Outside	the	trees	dragged	their	leaves	like	nets	through	the	depths	of	the
air;	the	sound	of	water	was	in	the	room	and	through	the	waves	came	the	voices
of	birds	singing.	Every	power	poured	its	treasures	on	his	head,	and	his	hand
lay	 there	 on	 the	 back	 of	 the	 sofa,	 as	 he	 had	 seen	 his	 hand	 lie	 when	 he	 was
bathing,	floating,	on	the	top	of	the	waves,	while	far	away	on	shore	he	heard
dogs	barking	and	barking	far	away.	Fear	no	more,	says	the	heart	in	the	body;
fear	no	more.

He	was	not	afraid.	At	every	moment	Nature	signified	by	some	laughing	hint
like	 that	 gold	 spot	 which	 went	 round	 the	 wall--there,	 there,	 there--her
determination	 to	 show,	 by	 brandishing	 her	 plumes,	 shaking	 her	 tresses,
flinging	 her	 mantle	 this	 way	 and	 that,	 beautifully,	 always	 beautifully,	 and
standing	close	up	to	breathe	through	her	hollowed	hands	Shakespeare's	words,
her	meaning.

Rezia,	sitting	at	the	table	twisting	a	hat	in	her	hands,	watched	him;	saw	him
smiling.	He	was	happy	then.	But	she	could	not	bear	to	see	him	smiling.	It	was
not	marriage;	it	was	not	being	one's	husband	to	look	strange	like	that,	always
to	 be	 starting,	 laughing,	 sitting	 hour	 after	 hour	 silent,	 or	 clutching	 her	 and
telling	 her	 to	 write.	 The	 table	 drawer	 was	 full	 of	 those	 writings;	 about	 war;
about	Shakespeare;	about	great	discoveries;	how	there	is	no	death.	Lately	he
had	 become	 excited	 suddenly	 for	 no	 reason	 (and	 both	 Dr.	 Holmes	 and	 Sir
William	Bradshaw	said	excitement	was	the	worst	thing	for	him),	and	waved
his	hands	and	cried	out	that	he	knew	the	truth!	He	knew	everything!	That	man,
his	friend	who	was	killed,	Evans,	had	come,	he	said.	He	was	singing	behind
the	 screen.	 She	 wrote	 it	 down	 just	 as	 he	 spoke	 it.	 Some	 things	 were	 very
beautiful;	others	sheer	nonsense.	And	he	was	always	stopping	in	the	middle,
changing	 his	 mind;	 wanting	 to	 add	 something;	 hearing	 something	 new;
listening	with	his	hand	up.

But	she	heard	nothing.

And	once	they	found	the	girl	who	did	the	room	reading	one	of	these	papers	in
fits	of	laughter.	It	was	a	dreadful	pity.	For	that	made	Septimus	cry	out	about
human	cruelty--how	they	tear	each	other	to	pieces.	The	fallen,	he	said,	they
tear	to	pieces.	"Holmes	is	on	us,"	he	would	say,	and	he	would	invent	stories
about	Holmes;	Holmes	eating	porridge;	Holmes	reading	Shakespeare--making
himself	 roar	 with	 laughter	 or	 rage,	 for	 Dr.	 Holmes	 seemed	 to	 stand	 for
something	horrible	to	him.	"Human	nature,"	he	called	him.	Then	there	were
the	visions.	He	was	drowned,	he	used	to	say,	and	lying	on	a	cliff	with	the	gulls
screaming	over	him.	He	would	look	over	the	edge	of	the	sofa	down	into	the

sea.	Or	he	was	hearing	music.	Really	it	was	only	a	barrel	organ	or	some	man
crying	 in	 the	 street.	 But	 "Lovely!"	 he	 used	 to	 cry,	 and	 the	 tears	 would	 run
down	his	cheeks,	which	was	to	her	the	most	dreadful	thing	of	all,	to	see	a	man
like	 Septimus,	 who	 had	 fought,	 who	 was	 brave,	 crying.	 And	 he	 would	 lie
listening	until	suddenly	he	would	cry	that	he	was	falling	down,	down	into	the
flames!	 Actually	 she	 would	 look	 for	 flames,	 it	 was	 so	 vivid.	 But	 there	 was
nothing.	They	were	alone	in	the	room.	It	was	a	dream,	she	would	tell	him	and
so	quiet	him	at	last,	but	sometimes	she	was	frightened	too.	She	sighed	as	she
sat	sewing.

Her	 sigh	 was	 tender	 and	 enchanting,	 like	 the	 wind	 outside	 a	 wood	 in	 the
evening.	Now	she	put	down	her	scissors;	now	she	turned	to	take	something
from	the	table.	A	little	stir,	a	little	crinkling,	a	little	tapping	built	up	something
on	the	table	there,	where	she	sat	sewing.	Through	his	eyelashes	he	could	see
her	 blurred	 outline;	 her	 little	 black	 body;	 her	 face	 and	 hands;	 her	 turning
movements	at	the	table,	as	she	took	up	a	reel,	or	looked	(she	was	apt	to	lose
things)	for	her	silk.	She	was	making	a	hat	for	Mrs.	Filmer's	married	daughter,
whose	name	was--he	had	forgotten	her	name.

"What	is	the	name	of	Mrs.	Filmer's	married	daughter?"	he	asked.

"Mrs.	Peters,"	said	Rezia.	She	was	afraid	it	was	too	small,	she	said,	holding	it
before	her.	Mrs.	Peters	was	a	big	woman;	but	she	did	not	like	her.	It	was	only
because	 Mrs.	 Filmer	 had	 been	 so	 good	 to	 them.	 "She	 gave	 me	 grapes	 this
morning,"	she	said--that	Rezia	wanted	to	do	something	to	show	that	they	were
grateful.	She	had	come	into	the	room	the	other	evening	and	found	Mrs.	Peters,
who	thought	they	were	out,	playing	the	gramophone.

"Was	it	true?"	he	asked.	She	was	playing	the	gramophone?	Yes;	she	had	told
him	about	it	at	the	time;	she	had	found	Mrs.	Peters	playing	the	gramophone.

He	began,	very	cautiously,	to	open	his	eyes,	to	see	whether	a	gramophone	was
really	 there.	 But	 real	 things--real	 things	 were	 too	 exciting.	 He	 must	 be
cautious.	He	would	not	go	mad.	First	he	looked	at	the	fashion	papers	on	the
lower	 shelf,	 then,	 gradually	 at	 the	 gramophone	 with	 the	 green	 trumpet.
Nothing	 could	 be	 more	 exact.	 And	 so,	 gathering	 courage,	 he	 looked	 at	 the
sideboard;	 the	 plate	 of	 bananas;	 the	 engraving	 of	 Queen	 Victoria	 and	 the
Prince	Consort;	at	the	mantelpiece,	with	the	jar	of	roses.	None	of	these	things
moved.	All	were	still;	all	were	real.

"She	is	a	woman	with	a	spiteful	tongue,"	said	Rezia.

"What	does	Mr.	Peters	do?"	Septimus	asked.

"Ah,"	said	Rezia,	trying	to	remember.	She	thought	Mrs.	Filmer	had	said	that

he	travelled	for	some	company.	"Just	now	he	is	in	Hull,"	she	said.

"Just	 now!"	 She	 said	 that	 with	 her	 Italian	 accent.	 She	 said	 that	 herself.	 He
shaded	his	eyes	so	that	he	might	see	only	a	little	of	her	face	at	a	time,	first	the
chin,	then	the	nose,	then	the	forehead,	in	case	it	were	deformed,	or	had	some
terrible	mark	on	it.	But	no,	there	she	was,	perfectly	natural,	sewing,	with	the
pursed	 lips	 that	 women	 have,	 the	 set,	 the	 melancholy	 expression,	 when
sewing.	But	there	was	nothing	terrible	about	it,	he	assured	himself,	looking	a
second	time,	a	third	time	at	her	face,	her	hands,	for	what	was	frightening	or
disgusting	in	her	as	she	sat	there	in	broad	daylight,	sewing?	Mrs.	Peters	had	a
spiteful	tongue.	Mr.	Peters	was	in	Hull.	Why	then	rage	and	prophesy?	Why	fly
scourged	and	outcast?	Why	be	made	to	tremble	and	sob	by	the	clouds?	Why
seek	truths	and	deliver	messages	when	Rezia	sat	sticking	pins	into	the	front	of
her	 dress,	 and	 Mr.	 Peters	 was	 in	 Hull?	 Miracles,	 revelations,	 agonies,
loneliness,	falling	through	the	sea,	down,	down	into	the	flames,	all	were	burnt
out,	for	he	had	a	sense,	as	he	watched	Rezia	trimming	the	straw	hat	for	Mrs.
Peters,	of	a	coverlet	of	flowers.

"It's	too	small	for	Mrs.	Peters,"	said	Septimus.

For	the	first	time	for	days	he	was	speaking	as	he	used	to	do!	Of	course	it	was--
absurdly	small,	she	said.	But	Mrs.	Peters	had	chosen	it.

He	took	it	out	of	her	hands.	He	said	it	was	an	organ	grinder's	monkey's	hat.

How	it	rejoiced	her	that!	Not	for	weeks	had	they	laughed	like	this	together,
poking	 fun	 privately	 like	 married	 people.	 What	 she	 meant	 was	 that	 if	 Mrs.
Filmer	 had	 come	 in,	 or	 Mrs.	 Peters	 or	 anybody	 they	 would	 not	 have
understood	what	she	and	Septimus	were	laughing	at.

"There,"	she	said,	pinning	a	rose	to	one	side	of	the	hat.	Never	had	she	felt	so
happy!	Never	in	her	life!

But	that	was	still	more	ridiculous,	Septimus	said.	Now	the	poor	woman	looked
like	a	pig	at	a	fair.	(Nobody	ever	made	her	laugh	as	Septimus	did.)

What	 had	 she	 got	 in	 her	 work-box?	 She	 had	 ribbons	 and	 beads,	 tassels,
artificial	 flowers.	 She	 tumbled	 them	 out	 on	 the	 table.	 He	 began	 putting	 odd
colours	together--for	though	he	had	no	fingers,	could	not	even	do	up	a	parcel,
he	had	a	wonderful	eye,	and	often	he	was	right,	sometimes	absurd,	of	course,
but	sometimes	wonderfully	right.

"She	shall	have	a	beautiful	hat!"	he	murmured,	taking	up	this	and	that,	Rezia
kneeling	by	his	side,	looking	over	his	shoulder.	Now	it	was	finished--that	is	to
say	the	design;	she	must	stitch	it	together.	But	she	must	be	very,	very	careful,

he	said,	to	keep	it	just	as	he	had	made	it.

So	she	sewed.	When	she	sewed,	he	thought,	she	made	a	sound	like	a	kettle	on
the	 hob;	 bubbling,	 murmuring,	 always	 busy,	 her	 strong	 little	 pointed	 fingers
pinching	 and	 poking;	 her	 needle	 flashing	 straight.	 The	 sun	 might	 go	 in	 and
out,	on	the	tassels,	on	the	wall-paper,	but	he	would	wait,	he	thought,	stretching
out	his	feet,	looking	at	his	ringed	sock	at	the	end	of	the	sofa;	he	would	wait	in
this	warm	place,	this	pocket	of	still	air,	which	one	comes	on	at	the	edge	of	a
wood	 sometimes	 in	 the	 evening,	 when,	 because	 of	 a	 fall	 in	 the	 ground,	 or
some	 arrangement	 of	 the	 trees	 (one	 must	 be	 scientific	 above	 all,	 scientific),
warmth	lingers,	and	the	air	buffets	the	cheek	like	the	wing	of	a	bird.

"There	it	is,"	said	Rezia,	twirling	Mrs.	Peters'	hat	on	the	tips	of	her	fingers.
"That'll	do	for	the	moment.	Later	.	.	."	her	sentence	bubbled	away	drip,	drip,
drip,	like	a	contented	tap	left	running.

It	was	wonderful.	Never	had	he	done	anything	which	made	him	feel	so	proud.
It	was	so	real,	it	was	so	substantial,	Mrs.	Peters'	hat.

"Just	look	at	it,"	he	said.

Yes,	it	would	always	make	her	happy	to	see	that	hat.	He	had	become	himself
then,	he	had	laughed	then.	They	had	been	alone	together.	Always	she	would
like	that	hat.

He	told	her	to	try	it	on.

"But	I	must	look	so	queer!"	she	cried,	running	over	to	the	glass	and	looking
first	this	side	then	that.	Then	she	snatched	it	off	again,	for	there	was	a	tap	at
the	door.	Could	it	be	Sir	William	Bradshaw?	Had	he	sent	already?

No!	it	was	only	the	small	girl	with	the	evening	paper.

What	 always	 happened,	 then	 happened--what	 happened	 every	 night	 of	 their
lives.	The	small	girl	sucked	her	thumb	at	the	door;	Rezia	went	down	on	her
knees;	 Rezia	 cooed	 and	 kissed;	 Rezia	 got	 a	 bag	 of	 sweets	 out	 of	 the	 table
drawer.	For	so	it	always	happened.	First	one	thing,	then	another.	So	she	built	it
up,	first	one	thing	and	then	another.	Dancing,	skipping,	round	and	round	the
room	they	went.	He	took	the	paper.	Surrey	was	all	out,	he	read.	There	was	a
heat	wave.	Rezia	repeated:	Surrey	was	all	out.	There	was	a	heat	wave,	making
it	 part	 of	 the	 game	 she	 was	 playing	 with	 Mrs.	 Filmer's	 grandchild,	 both	 of
them	laughing,	chattering	at	the	same	time,	at	their	game.	He	was	very	tired.
He	 was	 very	 happy.	 He	 would	 sleep.	 He	 shut	 his	 eyes.	 But	 directly	 he	 saw
nothing	the	sounds	of	the	game	became	fainter	and	stranger	and	sounded	like
the	 cries	 of	 people	 seeking	 and	 not	 finding,	 and	 passing	 further	 and	 further

away.	They	had	lost	him!

He	 started	 up	 in	 terror.	 What	 did	 he	 see?	 The	 plate	 of	 bananas	 on	 the
sideboard.	Nobody	was	there	(Rezia	had	taken	the	child	to	its	mother.	It	was
bedtime).	That	was	it:	to	be	alone	forever.	That	was	the	doom	pronounced	in
Milan	when	he	came	into	the	room	and	saw	them	cutting	out	buckram	shapes
with	their	scissors;	to	be	alone	forever.

He	was	alone	with	the	sideboard	and	the	bananas.	He	was	alone,	exposed	on
this	bleak	eminence,	stretched	out--but	not	on	a	hill-top;	not	on	a	crag;	on	Mrs.
Filmer's	sitting-room	sofa.	As	for	the	visions,	the	faces,	the	voices	of	the	dead,
where	were	they?	There	was	a	screen	in	front	of	him,	with	black	bulrushes	and
blue	swallows.	Where	he	had	once	seen	mountains,	where	he	had	seen	faces,
where	he	had	seen	beauty,	there	was	a	screen.

"Evans!"	he	cried.	There	was	no	answer.	A	mouse	had	squeaked,	or	a	curtain
rustled.	 Those	 were	 the	 voices	 of	 the	 dead.	 The	 screen,	 the	 coalscuttle,	 the
sideboard	remained	to	him.	Let	him	then	face	the	screen,	the	coal-scuttle	and
the	sideboard	.	.	.	but	Rezia	burst	into	the	room	chattering.

Some	letter	had	come.	Everybody's	plans	were	changed.	Mrs.	Filmer	would
not	be	able	to	go	to	Brighton	after	all.	There	was	no	time	to	let	Mrs.	Williams
know,	and	really	Rezia	thought	it	very,	very	annoying,	when	she	caught	sight
of	the	hat	and	thought	.	.	.	perhaps	.	.	.	she	.	.	.	might	just	make	a	little.	.	.	.	Her
voice	died	out	in	contented	melody.

"Ah,	damn!"	she	cried	(it	was	a	joke	of	theirs,	her	swearing),	the	needle	had
broken.	 Hat,	 child,	 Brighton,	 needle.	 She	 built	 it	 up;	 first	 one	 thing,	 then
another,	she	built	it	up,	sewing.

She	wanted	him	to	say	whether	by	moving	the	rose	she	had	improved	the	hat.
She	sat	on	the	end	of	the	sofa.

They	were	perfectly	happy	now,	she	said,	suddenly,	putting	the	hat	down.	For
she	 could	 say	 anything	 to	 him	 now.	 She	 could	 say	 whatever	 came	 into	 her
head.	That	was	almost	the	first	thing	she	had	felt	about	him,	that	night	in	the
café	when	he	had	come	in	with	his	English	friends.	He	had	come	in,	rather
shyly,	looking	round	him,	and	his	hat	had	fallen	when	he	hung	it	up.	That	she
could	 remember.	 She	 knew	 he	 was	 English,	 though	 not	 one	 of	 the	 large
Englishmen	her	sister	admired,	for	he	was	always	thin;	but	he	had	a	beautiful
fresh	colour;	and	with	his	big	nose,	his	bright	eyes,	his	way	of	sitting	a	little
hunched	made	her	think,	she	had	often	told	him,	of	a	young	hawk,	that	first
evening	she	saw	him,	when	they	were	playing	dominoes,	and	he	had	come	in--
of	a	young	hawk;	but	with	her	he	was	always	very	gentle.	She	had	never	seen
him	 wild	 or	 drunk,	 only	 suffering	 sometimes	 through	 this	 terrible	 war,	 but

even	so,	when	she	came	in,	he	would	put	it	all	away.	Anything,	anything	in	the
whole	world,	any	little	bother	with	her	work,	anything	that	struck	her	to	say
she	would	tell	him,	and	he	understood	at	once.	Her	own	family	even	were	not
the	same.	Being	older	than	she	was	and	being	so	clever--how	serious	he	was,
wanting	her	to	read	Shakespeare	before	she	could	even	read	a	child's	story	in
English!--being	 so	 much	 more	 experienced,	 he	 could	 help	 her.	 And	 she	 too
could	help	him.

But	this	hat	now.	And	then	(it	was	getting	late)	Sir	William	Bradshaw.

She	held	her	hands	to	her	head,	waiting	for	him	to	say	did	he	like	the	hat	or
not,	and	as	she	sat	there,	waiting,	looking	down,	he	could	feel	her	mind,	like	a
bird,	 falling	 from	 branch	 to	 branch,	 and	 always	 alighting,	 quite	 rightly;	 he
could	follow	her	mind,	as	she	sat	there	in	one	of	those	loose	lax	poses	that
came	to	her	naturally	and,	if	he	should	say	anything,	at	once	she	smiled,	like	a
bird	alighting	with	all	its	claws	firm	upon	the	bough.

But	he	remembered	Bradshaw	said,	"The	people	we	are	most	fond	of	are	not
good	 for	 us	 when	 we	 are	 ill."	 Bradshaw	 said,	 he	 must	 be	 taught	 to	 rest.
Bradshaw	said	they	must	be	separated.

"Must,"	 "must,"	 why	 "must"?	 What	 power	 had	 Bradshaw	 over	 him?	 "What
right	has	Bradshaw	to	say	'must'	to	me?"	he	demanded.

"It	 is	 because	 you	 talked	 of	 killing	 yourself,"	 said	 Rezia.	 (Mercifully,	 she
could	now	say	anything	to	Septimus.)

So	he	was	in	their	power!	Holmes	and	Bradshaw	were	on	him!	The	brute	with
the	 red	 nostrils	 was	 snuffing	 into	 every	 secret	 place!	 "Must"	 it	 could	 say!
Where	were	his	papers?	the	things	he	had	written?

She	brought	him	his	papers,	the	things	he	had	written,	things	she	had	written
for	him.	She	tumbled	them	out	on	to	the	sofa.	They	looked	at	them	together.
Diagrams,	 designs,	 little	 men	 and	 women	 brandishing	 sticks	 for	 arms,	 with
wings--were	 they?--on	 their	 backs;	 circles	 traced	 round	 shillings	 and
sixpences--the	 suns	 and	 stars;	 zigzagging	 precipices	 with	 mountaineers
ascending	roped	together,	exactly	like	knives	and	forks;	sea	pieces	with	little
faces	 laughing	 out	 of	 what	 might	 perhaps	 be	 waves:	 the	 map	 of	 the	 world.
Burn	 them!	 he	 cried.	 Now	 for	 his	 writings;	 how	 the	 dead	 sing	 behind
rhododendron	bushes;	odes	to	Time;	conversations	with	Shakespeare;	Evans,
Evans,	 Evans--his	 messages	 from	 the	 dead;	 do	 not	 cut	 down	 trees;	 tell	 the
Prime	 Minister.	 Universal	 love:	 the	 meaning	 of	 the	 world.	 Burn	 them!	 he
cried.

But	Rezia	laid	her	hands	on	them.	Some	were	very	beautiful,	she	thought.	She

would	tie	them	up	(for	she	had	no	envelope)	with	a	piece	of	silk.

Even	 if	 they	 took	 him,	 she	 said,	 she	 would	 go	 with	 him.	 They	 could	 not
separate	them	against	their	wills,	she	said.

Shuffling	the	edges	straight,	she	did	up	the	papers,	and	tied	the	parcel	almost
without	looking,	sitting	beside	him,	he	thought,	as	if	all	her	petals	were	about
her.	She	was	a	flowering	tree;	and	through	her	branches	looked	out	the	face	of
a	 lawgiver,	 who	 had	 reached	 a	 sanctuary	 where	 she	 feared	 no	 one;	 not
Holmes;	not	Bradshaw;	a	miracle,	a	triumph,	the	last	and	greatest.	Staggering
he	saw	her	mount	the	appalling	staircase,	laden	with	Holmes	and	Bradshaw,
men	who	never	weighed	less	than	eleven	stone	six,	who	sent	their	wives	to
Court,	 men	 who	 made	 ten	 thousand	 a	 year	 and	 talked	 of	 proportion;	 who
different	in	their	verdicts	(for	Holmes	said	one	thing,	Bradshaw	another),	yet
judges	they	were;	who	mixed	the	vision	and	the	sideboard;	saw	nothing	clear,
yet	ruled,	yet	inflicted.	"Must"	they	said.	Over	them	she	triumphed.

"There!"	she	said.	The	papers	were	tied	up.	No	one	should	get	at	them.	She
would	put	them	away.

And,	 she	 said,	 nothing	 should	 separate	 them.	 She	 sat	 down	 beside	 him	 and
called	 him	 by	 the	 name	 of	 that	 hawk	 or	 crow	 which	 being	 malicious	 and	 a
great	destroyer	of	crops	was	precisely	like	him.	No	one	could	separate	them,
she	said.

Then	she	got	up	to	go	into	the	bedroom	to	pack	their	things,	but	hearing	voices
downstairs	 and	 thinking	 that	 Dr.	 Holmes	 had	 perhaps	 called,	 ran	 down	 to
prevent	him	coming	up.

Septimus	could	hear	her	talking	to	Holmes	on	the	staircase.

"My	dear	lady,	I	have	come	as	a	friend,"	Holmes	was	saying.

"No.	I	will	not	allow	you	to	see	my	husband,"	she	said.

He	could	see	her,	like	a	little	hen,	with	her	wings	spread	barring	his	passage.
But	Holmes	persevered.

"My	dear	lady,	allow	me	.	.	."	Holmes	said,	putting	her	aside	(Holmes	was	a
powerfully	built	man).

Holmes	 was	 coming	 upstairs.	 Holmes	 would	 burst	 open	 the	 door.	 Holmes
would	say	"In	a	funk,	eh?"	Holmes	would	get	him.	But	no;	not	Holmes;	not
Bradshaw.	Getting	up	rather	unsteadily,	hopping	indeed	from	foot	to	foot,	he
considered	 Mrs.	 Filmer's	 nice	 clean	 bread	 knife	 with	 "Bread"	 carved	 on	 the
handle.	Ah,	but	one	mustn't	spoil	that.	The	gas	fire?	But	it	was	too	late	now.

Holmes	 was	 coming.	 Razors	 he	 might	 have	 got,	 but	 Rezia,	 who	 always	 did
that	sort	of	thing,	had	packed	them.	There	remained	only	the	window,	the	large
Bloomsbury-lodging	house	window,	the	tiresome,	the	troublesome,	and	rather
melodramatic	 business	 of	 opening	 the	 window	 and	 throwing	 himself	 out.	 It
was	their	idea	of	tragedy,	not	his	or	Rezia's	(for	she	was	with	him).	Holmes
and	Bradshaw	like	that	sort	of	thing.	(He	sat	on	the	sill.)	But	he	would	wait	till
the	 very	 last	 moment.	 He	 did	 not	 want	 to	 die.	 Life	 was	 good.	 The	 sun	 hot.
Only	human	beings--what	did	they	want?	Coming	down	the	staircase	opposite
an	 old	 man	 stopped	 and	 stared	 at	 him.	 Holmes	 was	 at	 the	 door.	 "I'll	 give	 it
you!"	 he	 cried,	 and	 flung	 himself	 vigorously,	 violently	 down	 on	 to	 Mrs.
Filmer's	area	railings.

"The	 coward!"	 cried	 Dr.	 Holmes,	 bursting	 the	 door	 open.	 Rezia	 ran	 to	 the
window,	she	saw;	she	understood.	Dr.	Holmes	and	Mrs.	Filmer	collided	with
each	other.	Mrs.	Filmer	flapped	her	apron	and	made	her	hide	her	eyes	in	the
bedroom.	There	was	a	great	deal	of	running	up	and	down	stairs.	Dr.	Holmes
came	in--white	as	a	sheet,	shaking	all	over,	with	a	glass	in	his	hand.	She	must
be	brave	and	drink	something,	he	said	(What	was	it?	Something	sweet),	for
her	husband	was	horribly	mangled,	would	not	recover	consciousness,	she	must
not	see	him,	must	be	spared	as	much	as	possible,	would	have	the	inquest	to	go
through,	poor	young	woman.	Who	could	have	foretold	it?	A	sudden	impulse,
no	one	was	in	the	least	to	blame	(he	told	Mrs.	Filmer).	And	why	the	devil	he
did	it,	Dr.	Holmes	could	not	conceive.

It	 seemed	 to	 her	 as	 she	 drank	 the	 sweet	 stuff	 that	 she	 was	 opening	 long
windows,	stepping	out	into	some	garden.	But	where?	The	clock	was	striking--
one,	two,	three:	how	sensible	the	sound	was;	compared	with	all	this	thumping
and	whispering;	like	Septimus	himself.	She	was	falling	asleep.	But	the	clock
went	 on	 striking,	 four,	 five,	 six	 and	 Mrs.	 Filmer	 waving	 her	 apron	 (they
wouldn't	bring	the	body	in	here,	would	they?)	seemed	part	of	that	garden;	or	a
flag.	She	had	once	seen	a	flag	slowly	rippling	out	from	a	mast	when	she	stayed
with	her	aunt	at	Venice.	Men	killed	in	battle	were	thus	saluted,	and	Septimus
had	been	through	the	War.	Of	her	memories,	most	were	happy.

She	put	on	her	hat,	and	ran	through	cornfields--where	could	it	have	been?--on
to	some	hill,	somewhere	near	the	sea,	for	there	were	ships,	gulls,	butterflies;
they	sat	on	a	cliff.	In	London	too,	there	they	sat,	and,	half	dreaming,	came	to
her	through	the	bedroom	door,	rain	falling,	whisperings,	stirrings	among	dry
corn,	the	caress	of	the	sea,	as	it	seemed	to	her,	hollowing	them	in	its	arched
shell	and	murmuring	to	her	laid	on	shore,	strewn	she	felt,	like	flying	flowers
over	some	tomb.

"He	is	dead,"	she	said,	smiling	at	the	poor	old	woman	who	guarded	her	with
her	honest	light-blue	eyes	fixed	on	the	door.	(They	wouldn't	bring	him	in	here,

would	 they?)	 But	 Mrs.	 Filmer	 pooh-poohed.	 Oh	 no,	 oh	 no!	 They	 were
carrying	him	away	now.	Ought	she	not	to	be	told?	Married	people	ought	to	be
together,	Mrs.	Filmer	thought.	But	they	must	do	as	the	doctor	said.

"Let	her	sleep,"	said	Dr.	Holmes,	feeling	her	pulse.	She	saw	the	large	outline
of	his	body	standing	dark	against	the	window.	So	that	was	Dr.	Holmes.

One	 of	 the	 triumphs	 of	 civilisation,	 Peter	 Walsh	 thought.	 It	 is	 one	 of	 the
triumphs	 of	 civilisation,	 as	 the	 light	 high	 bell	 of	 the	 ambulance	 sounded.
Swiftly,	cleanly	the	ambulance	sped	to	the	hospital,	having	picked	up	instantly,
humanely,	some	poor	devil;	some	one	hit	on	the	head,	struck	down	by	disease,
knocked	over	perhaps	a	minute	or	so	ago	at	one	of	these	crossings,	as	might
happen	to	oneself.	That	was	civilisation.	It	struck	him	coming	back	from	the
East--the	efficiency,	the	organisation,	the	communal	spirit	of	London.	Every
cart	 or	 carriage	 of	 its	 own	 accord	 drew	 aside	 to	 let	 the	 ambulance	 pass.
Perhaps	it	was	morbid;	or	was	it	not	touching	rather,	the	respect	which	they
showed	 this	 ambulance	 with	 its	 victim	 inside--busy	 men	 hurrying	 home	 yet
instantly	bethinking	them	as	it	passed	of	some	wife;	or	presumably	how	easily
it	might	have	been	them	there,	stretched	on	a	shelf	with	a	doctor	and	a	nurse.	.
.	.	Ah,	but	thinking	became	morbid,	sentimental,	directly	one	began	conjuring
up	doctors,	dead	bodies;	a	little	glow	of	pleasure,	a	sort	of	lust	too	over	the
visual	impression	warned	one	not	to	go	on	with	that	sort	of	thing	any	more--
fatal	 to	 art,	 fatal	 to	 friendship.	 True.	 And	 yet,	 thought	 Peter	 Walsh,	 as	 the
ambulance	turned	the	corner	though	the	light	high	bell	could	be	heard	down
the	 next	 street	 and	 still	 farther	 as	 it	 crossed	 the	 Tottenham	 Court	 Road,
chiming	constantly,	it	is	the	privilege	of	loneliness;	in	privacy	one	may	do	as
one	 chooses.	 One	 might	 weep	 if	 no	 one	 saw.	 It	 had	 been	 his	 undoing--this
susceptibility--in	 Anglo-Indian	 society;	 not	 weeping	 at	 the	 right	 time,	 or
laughing	either.	I	have	that	in	me,	he	thought	standing	by	the	pillar-box,	which
could	 now	 dissolve	 in	 tears.	 Why,	 Heaven	 knows.	 Beauty	 of	 some	 sort
probably,	and	the	weight	of	the	day,	which	beginning	with	that	visit	to	Clarissa
had	 exhausted	 him	 with	 its	 heat,	 its	 intensity,	 and	 the	 drip,	 drip,	 of	 one
impression	after	another	down	into	that	cellar	where	they	stood,	deep,	dark,
and	no	one	would	ever	know.	Partly	for	that	reason,	its	secrecy,	complete	and
inviolable,	he	had	found	life	like	an	unknown	garden,	full	of	turns	and	corners,
surprising,	yes;	really	it	took	one's	breath	away,	these	moments;	there	coming
to	him	by	the	pillar-box	opposite	the	British	Museum	one	of	them,	a	moment,
in	which	things	came	together;	this	ambulance;	and	life	and	death.	It	was	as	if
he	were	sucked	up	to	some	very	high	roof	by	that	rush	of	emotion	and	the	rest
of	him,	like	a	white	shell-sprinkled	beach,	left	bare.	It	had	been	his	undoing	in
Anglo-Indian	society--this	susceptibility.

Clarissa	 once,	 going	 on	 top	 of	 an	 omnibus	 with	 him	 somewhere,	 Clarissa

superficially	 at	 least,	 so	 easily	 moved,	 now	 in	 despair,	 now	 in	 the	 best	 of
spirits,	all	aquiver	in	those	days	and	such	good	company,	spotting	queer	little
scenes,	names,	people	from	the	top	of	a	bus,	for	they	used	to	explore	London
and	 bring	 back	 bags	 full	 of	 treasures	 from	 the	 Caledonian	 market--Clarissa
had	 a	 theory	 in	 those	 days--they	 had	 heaps	 of	 theories,	 always	 theories,	 as
young	people	have.	It	was	to	explain	the	feeling	they	had	of	dissatisfaction;
not	knowing	people;	not	being	known.	For	how	could	they	know	each	other?
You	met	every	day;	then	not	for	six	months,	or	years.	It	was	unsatisfactory,
they	agreed,	how	little	one	knew	people.	But	she	said,	sitting	on	the	bus	going
up	 Shaftesbury	 Avenue,	 she	 felt	 herself	 everywhere;	 not	 "here,	 here,	 here";
and	 she	 tapped	 the	 back	 of	 the	 seat;	 but	 everywhere.	 She	 waved	 her	 hand,
going	up	Shaftesbury	Avenue.	She	was	all	that.	So	that	to	know	her,	or	any
one,	one	must	seek	out	the	people	who	completed	them;	even	the	places.	Odd
affinities	she	had	with	people	she	had	never	spoken	to,	some	woman	in	the
street,	 some	 man	 behind	 a	 counter--even	 trees,	 or	 barns.	 It	 ended	 in	 a
transcendental	theory	which,	with	her	horror	of	death,	allowed	her	to	believe,
or	say	that	she	believed	(for	all	her	scepticism),	that	since	our	apparitions,	the
part	 of	 us	 which	 appears,	 are	 so	 momentary	 compared	 with	 the	 other,	 the
unseen	part	of	us,	which	spreads	wide,	the	unseen	might	survive,	be	recovered
somehow	attached	to	this	person	or	that,	or	even	haunting	certain	places	after
death	.	.	.	perhaps--perhaps.

Looking	 back	 over	 that	 long	 friendship	 of	 almost	 thirty	 years	 her	 theory
worked	to	this	extent.	Brief,	broken,	often	painful	as	their	actual	meetings	had
been	what	with	his	absences	and	interruptions	(this	morning,	for	instance,	in
came	 Elizabeth,	 like	 a	 long-legged	 colt,	 handsome,	 dumb,	 just	 as	 he	 was
beginning	to	talk	to	Clarissa)	the	effect	of	them	on	his	life	was	immeasurable.
There	was	a	mystery	about	it.	You	were	given	a	sharp,	acute,	uncomfortable
grain--the	actual	meeting;	horribly	painful	as	often	as	not;	yet	in	absence,	in
the	 most	 unlikely	 places,	 it	 would	 flower	 out,	 open,	 shed	 its	 scent,	 let	 you
touch,	taste,	look	about	you,	get	the	whole	feel	of	it	and	understanding,	after
years	 of	 lying	 lost.	 Thus	 she	 had	 come	 to	 him;	 on	 board	 ship;	 in	 the
Himalayas;	 suggested	 by	 the	 oddest	 things	 (so	 Sally	 Seton,	 generous,
enthusiastic	goose!	thought	of	him	when	she	saw	blue	hydrangeas).	She	had
influenced	him	more	than	any	person	he	had	ever	known.	And	always	in	this
way	 coming	 before	 him	 without	 his	 wishing	 it,	 cool,	 lady-like,	 critical;	 or
ravishing,	romantic,	recalling	some	field	or	English	harvest.	He	saw	her	most
often	in	the	country,	not	in	London.	One	scene	after	another	at	Bourton.	.	.	.

He	 had	 reached	 his	 hotel.	 He	 crossed	 the	 hall,	 with	 its	 mounds	 of	 reddish
chairs	and	sofas,	its	spike-leaved,	withered-looking	plants.	He	got	his	key	off
the	hook.	The	young	lady	handed	him	some	letters.	He	went	upstairs--he	saw
her	 most	 often	 at	 Bourton,	 in	 the	 late	 summer,	 when	 he	 stayed	 there	 for	 a

week,	or	fortnight	even,	as	people	did	in	those	days.	First	on	top	of	some	hill
there	 she	 would	 stand,	 hands	 clapped	 to	 her	 hair,	 her	 cloak	 blowing	 out,
pointing,	crying	to	them--she	saw	the	Severn	beneath.	Or	in	a	wood,	making
the	 kettle	 boil--very	 ineffective	 with	 her	 fingers;	 the	 smoke	 curtseying,
blowing	 in	 their	 faces;	 her	 little	 pink	 face	 showing	 through;	 begging	 water
from	an	old	woman	in	a	cottage,	who	came	to	the	door	to	watch	them	go.	They
walked	always;	the	others	drove.	She	was	bored	driving,	disliked	all	animals,
except	that	dog.	They	tramped	miles	along	roads.	She	would	break	off	to	get
her	 bearings,	 pilot	 him	 back	 across	 country;	 and	 all	 the	 time	 they	 argued,
discussed	 poetry,	 discussed	 people,	 discussed	 politics	 (she	 was	 a	 Radical
then);	never	noticing	a	thing	except	when	she	stopped,	cried	out	at	a	view	or	a
tree,	and	made	him	look	with	her;	and	so	on	again,	through	stubble	fields,	she
walking	ahead,	with	a	flower	for	her	aunt,	never	tired	of	walking	for	all	her
delicacy;	 to	 drop	 down	 on	 Bourton	 in	 the	 dusk.	 Then,	 after	 dinner,	 old
Breitkopf	would	open	the	piano	and	sing	without	any	voice,	and	they	would
lie	 sunk	 in	 arm-chairs,	 trying	 not	 to	 laugh,	 but	 always	 breaking	 down	 and
laughing,	 laughing--laughing	 at	 nothing.	 Breitkopf	 was	 supposed	 not	 to	 see.
And	then	in	the	morning,	flirting	up	and	down	like	a	wagtail	in	front	of	the
house.	.	.	.

Oh	it	was	a	letter	from	her!	This	blue	envelope;	that	was	her	hand.	And	he
would	 have	 to	 read	 it.	 Here	 was	 another	 of	 those	 meetings,	 bound	 to	 be
painful!	To	read	her	letter	needed	the	devil	of	an	effort.	"How	heavenly	it	was
to	see	him.	She	must	tell	him	that."	That	was	all.

But	it	upset	him.	It	annoyed	him.	He	wished	she	hadn't	written	it.	Coming	on
top	of	his	thoughts,	it	was	like	a	nudge	in	the	ribs.	Why	couldn't	she	let	him
be?	 After	 all,	 she	 had	 married	 Dalloway,	 and	 lived	 with	 him	 in	 perfect
happiness	all	these	years.

These	hotels	are	not	consoling	places.	Far	from	it.	Any	number	of	people	had
hung	 up	 their	 hats	 on	 those	 pegs.	 Even	 the	 flies,	 if	 you	 thought	 of	 it,	 had
settled	 on	 other	 people's	 noses.	 As	 for	 the	 cleanliness	 which	 hit	 him	 in	 the
face,	it	wasn't	cleanliness,	so	much	as	bareness,	frigidity;	a	thing	that	had	to
be.	 Some	 arid	 matron	 made	 her	 rounds	 at	 dawn	 sniffing,	 peering,	 causing
blue-nosed	maids	to	scour,	for	all	the	world	as	if	the	next	visitor	were	a	joint
of	meat	to	be	served	on	a	perfectly	clean	platter.	For	sleep,	one	bed;	for	sitting
in,	one	armchair;	for	cleaning	one's	teeth	and	shaving	one's	chin,	one	tumbler,
one	 looking-glass.	 Books,	 letters,	 dressing-gown,	 slipped	 about	 on	 the
impersonality	 of	 the	 horsehair	 like	 incongruous	 impertinences.	 And	 it	 was
Clarissa's	letter	that	made	him	see	all	this.	"Heavenly	to	see	you.	She	must	say
so!"	He	folded	the	paper;	pushed	it	away;	nothing	would	induce	him	to	read	it
again!

To	get	that	letter	to	him	by	six	o'clock	she	must	have	sat	down	and	written	it
directly	he	left	her;	stamped	it;	sent	somebody	to	the	post.	It	was,	as	people
say,	very	like	her.	She	was	upset	by	his	visit.	She	had	felt	a	great	deal;	had	for
a	moment,	when	she	kissed	his	hand,	regretted,	envied	him	even,	remembered
possibly	 (for	 he	 saw	 her	 look	 it)	 something	 he	 had	 said--how	 they	 would
change	 the	 world	 if	 she	 married	 him	 perhaps;	 whereas,	 it	 was	 this;	 it	 was
middle	age;	it	was	mediocrity;	then	forced	herself	with	her	indomitable	vitality
to	put	all	that	aside,	there	being	in	her	a	thread	of	life	which	for	toughness,
endurance,	power	to	overcome	obstacles,	and	carry	her	triumphantly	through
he	had	never	known	the	like	of.	Yes;	but	there	would	come	a	reaction	directly
he	left	the	room.	She	would	be	frightfully	sorry	for	him;	she	would	think	what
in	the	world	she	could	do	to	give	him	pleasure	(short	always	of	the	one	thing)
and	 he	 could	 see	 her	 with	 the	 tears	 running	 down	 her	 cheeks	 going	 to	 her
writing-table	and	dashing	off	that	one	line	which	he	was	to	find	greeting	him.	.
.	.	"Heavenly	to	see	you!"	And	she	meant	it.

Peter	Walsh	had	now	unlaced	his	boots.

But	it	would	not	have	been	a	success,	their	marriage.	The	other	thing,	after	all,
came	so	much	more	naturally.

It	was	odd;	it	was	true;	lots	of	people	felt	it.	Peter	Walsh,	who	had	done	just
respectably,	 filled	 the	 usual	 posts	 adequately,	 was	 liked,	 but	 thought	 a	 little
cranky,	gave	himself	airs--it	was	odd	that	he	should	have	had,	especially	now
that	his	hair	was	grey,	a	contented	look;	a	look	of	having	reserves.	It	was	this
that	 made	 him	 attractive	 to	 women	 who	 liked	 the	 sense	 that	 he	 was	 not
altogether	 manly.	 There	 was	 something	 unusual	 about	 him,	 or	 something
behind	him.	It	might	be	that	he	was	bookish--never	came	to	see	you	without
taking	 up	 the	 book	 on	 the	 table	 (he	 was	 now	 reading,	 with	 his	 bootlaces
trailing	on	the	floor);	or	that	he	was	a	gentleman,	which	showed	itself	in	the
way	 he	 knocked	 the	 ashes	 out	 of	 his	 pipe,	 and	 in	 his	 manners	 of	 course	 to
women.	For	it	was	very	charming	and	quite	ridiculous	how	easily	some	girl
without	a	grain	of	sense	could	twist	him	round	her	finger.	But	at	her	own	risk.
That	is	to	say,	though	he	might	be	ever	so	easy,	and	indeed	with	his	gaiety	and
good-breeding	 fascinating	 to	 be	 with,	 it	 was	 only	 up	 to	 a	 point.	 She	 said
something--no,	no;	he	saw	through	that.	He	wouldn't	stand	that--no,	no.	Then
he	could	shout	and	rock	and	hold	his	sides	together	over	some	joke	with	men.
He	was	the	best	judge	of	cooking	in	India.	He	was	a	man.	But	not	the	sort	of
man	 one	 had	 to	 respect--which	 was	 a	 mercy;	 not	 like	 Major	 Simmons,	 for
instance;	 not	 in	 the	 least	 like	 that,	 Daisy	 thought,	 when,	 in	 spite	 of	 her	 two
small	children,	she	used	to	compare	them.

He	pulled	off	his	boots.	He	emptied	his	pockets.	Out	came	with	his	pocket-
knife	 a	 snapshot	 of	 Daisy	 on	 the	 verandah;	 Daisy	 all	 in	 white,	 with	 a	 fox-

terrier	on	her	knee;	very	charming,	very	dark;	the	best	he	had	ever	seen	of	her.
It	did	come,	after	all	so	naturally;	so	much	more	naturally	than	Clarissa.	No
fuss.	No	bother.	No	finicking	and	fidgeting.	All	plain	sailing.	And	the	dark,
adorably	pretty	girl	on	the	verandah	exclaimed	(he	could	hear	her).	Of	course,
of	 course	 she	 would	 give	 him	 everything!	 she	 cried	 (she	 had	 no	 sense	 of
discretion)	 everything	 he	 wanted!	 she	 cried,	 running	 to	 meet	 him,	 whoever
might	be	looking.	And	she	was	only	twenty-four.	And	she	had	two	children.
Well,	well!

Well	indeed	he	had	got	himself	into	a	mess	at	his	age.	And	it	came	over	him
when	he	woke	in	the	night	pretty	forcibly.	Suppose	they	did	marry?	For	him	it
would	be	all	very	well,	but	what	about	her?	Mrs.	Burgess,	a	good	sort	and	no
chatterbox,	in	whom	he	had	confided,	thought	this	absence	of	his	in	England,
ostensibly	to	see	lawyers	might	serve	to	make	Daisy	reconsider,	think	what	it
meant.	It	was	a	question	of	her	position,	Mrs.	Burgess	said;	the	social	barrier;
giving	 up	 her	 children.	 She'd	 be	 a	 widow	 with	 a	 past	 one	 of	 these	 days,
draggling	about	in	the	suburbs,	or	more	likely,	indiscriminate	(you	know,	she
said,	what	such	women	get	like,	with	too	much	paint).	But	Peter	Walsh	pooh-
poohed	all	that.	He	didn't	mean	to	die	yet.	Anyhow	she	must	settle	for	herself;
judge	for	herself,	he	thought,	padding	about	the	room	in	his	socks,	smoothing
out	his	dress-shirt,	for	he	might	go	to	Clarissa's	party,	or	he	might	go	to	one	of
the	Halls,	or	he	might	settle	in	and	read	an	absorbing	book	written	by	a	man	he
used	to	know	at	Oxford.	And	if	he	did	retire,	that's	what	he'd	do--write	books.
He	 would	 go	 to	 Oxford	 and	 poke	 about	 in	 the	 Bodleian.	 Vainly	 the	 dark,
adorably	pretty	girl	ran	to	the	end	of	the	terrace;	vainly	waved	her	hand;	vainly
cried	 she	 didn't	 care	 a	 straw	 what	 people	 said.	 There	 he	 was,	 the	 man	 she
thought	the	world	of,	the	perfect	gentleman,	the	fascinating,	the	distinguished
(and	his	age	made	not	the	least	difference	to	her),	padding	about	a	room	in	an
hotel	 in	 Bloomsbury,	 shaving,	 washing,	 continuing,	 as	 he	 took	 up	 cans,	 put
down	razors,	to	poke	about	in	the	Bodleian,	and	get	at	the	truth	about	one	or
two	little	matters	that	interested	him.	And	he	would	have	a	chat	with	whoever
it	might	be,	and	so	come	to	disregard	more	and	more	precise	hours	for	lunch,
and	miss	engagements,	and	when	Daisy	asked	him,	as	she	would,	for	a	kiss,	a
scene,	fail	to	come	up	to	the	scratch	(though	he	was	genuinely	devoted	to	her)-
-in	short	it	might	be	happier,	as	Mrs.	Burgess	said,	that	she	should	forget	him,
or	merely	remember	him	as	he	was	in	August	1922,	like	a	figure	standing	at
the	cross	roads	at	dusk,	which	grows	more	and	more	remote	as	the	dog-cart
spins	away,	carrying	her	securely	fastened	to	the	back	seat,	though	her	arms
are	 outstretched,	 and	 as	 she	 sees	 the	 figure	 dwindle	 and	 disappear	 still	 she
cries	 out	 how	 she	 would	 do	 anything	 in	 the	 world,	 anything,	 anything,
anything.	.	.	.

He	 never	 knew	 what	 people	 thought.	 It	 became	 more	 and	 more	 difficult	 for

him	 to	 concentrate.	 He	 became	 absorbed;	 he	 became	 busied	 with	 his	 own
concerns;	now	surly,	now	gay;	dependent	on	women,	absent-minded,	moody,
less	 and	 less	 able	 (so	 he	 thought	 as	 he	 shaved)	 to	 understand	 why	 Clarissa
couldn't	simply	find	them	a	lodging	and	be	nice	to	Daisy;	introduce	her.	And
then	he	could	just--just	do	what?	just	haunt	and	hover	(he	was	at	the	moment
actually	 engaged	 in	 sorting	 out	 various	 keys,	 papers),	 swoop	 and	 taste,	 be
alone,	 in	 short,	 sufficient	 to	 himself;	 and	 yet	 nobody	 of	 course	 was	 more
dependent	upon	others	(he	buttoned	his	waistcoat);	it	had	been	his	undoing.
He	 could	 not	 keep	 out	 of	 smoking-rooms,	 liked	 colonels,	 liked	 golf,	 liked
bridge,	 and	 above	 all	 women's	 society,	 and	
their
companionship,	 and	 their	 faithfulness	 and	 audacity	 and	 greatness	 in	 loving
which	 though	 it	 had	 its	 drawbacks	 seemed	 to	 him	 (and	 the	 dark,	 adorably
pretty	face	was	on	top	of	the	envelopes)	so	wholly	admirable,	so	splendid	a
flower	to	grow	on	the	crest	of	human	life,	and	yet	he	could	not	come	up	to	the
scratch,	being	always	apt	to	see	round	things	(Clarissa	had	sapped	something
in	 him	 permanently),	 and	 to	 tire	 very	 easily	 of	 mute	 devotion	 and	 to	 want
variety	in	love,	though	it	would	make	him	furious	if	Daisy	loved	anybody	else,
furious!	 for	 he	 was	 jealous,	 uncontrollably	 jealous	 by	 temperament.	 He
suffered	tortures!	But	where	was	his	knife;	his	watch;	his	seals,	his	note-case,
and	Clarissa's	letter	which	he	would	not	read	again	but	liked	to	think	of,	and
Daisy's	photograph?	And	now	for	dinner.

the	 fineness	 of	

They	were	eating.

Sitting	 at	 little	 tables	 round	 vases,	 dressed	 or	 not	 dressed,	 with	 their	 shawls
and	bags	laid	beside	them,	with	their	air	of	false	composure,	for	they	were	not
used	to	so	many	courses	at	dinner,	and	confidence,	for	they	were	able	to	pay
for	it,	and	strain,	for	they	had	been	running	about	London	all	day	shopping,
sightseeing;	 and	 their	 natural	 curiosity,	 for	 they	 looked	 round	 and	 up	 as	 the
nice-looking	 gentleman	 in	 horn-rimmed	 spectacles	 came	 in,	 and	 their	 good
nature,	for	they	would	have	been	glad	to	do	any	little	service,	such	as	lend	a
time-table	 or	 impart	 useful	 information,	 and	 their	 desire,	 pulsing	 in	 them,
tugging	at	them	subterraneously,	somehow	to	establish	connections	if	it	were
only	a	birthplace	(Liverpool,	for	example)	in	common	or	friends	of	the	same
name;	 with	 their	 furtive	 glances,	 odd	 silences,	 and	 sudden	 withdrawals	 into
family	jocularity	and	isolation;	there	they	sat	eating	dinner	when	Mr.	Walsh
came	in	and	took	his	seat	at	a	little	table	by	the	curtain.

It	 was	 not	 that	 he	 said	 anything,	 for	 being	 solitary	 he	 could	 only	 address
himself	to	the	waiter;	it	was	his	way	of	looking	at	the	menu,	of	pointing	his
forefinger	 to	 a	 particular	 wine,	 of	 hitching	 himself	 up	 to	 the	 table,	 of
addressing	 himself	 seriously,	 not	 gluttonously	 to	 dinner,	 that	 won	 him	 their
respect;	which,	having	to	remain	unexpressed	for	the	greater	part	of	the	meal,

flared	up	at	the	table	where	the	Morrises	sat	when	Mr.	Walsh	was	heard	to	say
at	 the	 end	 of	 the	 meal,	 "Bartlett	 pears."	 Why	 he	 should	 have	 spoken	 so
moderately	 yet	 firmly,	 with	 the	 air	 of	 a	 disciplinarian	 well	 within	 his	 rights
which	 are	 founded	 upon	 justice,	 neither	 young	 Charles	 Morris,	 nor	 old
Charles,	 neither	 Miss	 Elaine	 nor	 Mrs.	 Morris	 knew.	 But	 when	 he	 said,
"Bartlett	 pears,"	 sitting	 alone	 at	 his	 table,	 they	 felt	 that	 he	 counted	 on	 their
support	in	some	lawful	demand;	was	champion	of	a	cause	which	immediately
became	their	own,	so	that	their	eyes	met	his	eyes	sympathetically,	and	when
they	all	reached	the	smoking-room	simultaneously,	a	little	talk	between	them
became	inevitable.

It	 was	 not	 very	 profound--only	 to	 the	 effect	 that	 London	 was	 crowded;	 had
changed	in	thirty	years;	that	Mr.	Morris	preferred	Liverpool;	that	Mrs.	Morris
had	been	to	the	Westminster	flower-show,	and	that	they	had	all	seen	the	Prince
of	Wales.	Yet,	thought	Peter	Walsh,	no	family	in	the	world	can	compare	with
the	Morrises;	none	whatever;	and	their	relations	to	each	other	are	perfect,	and
they	don't	care	a	hang	for	the	upper	classes,	and	they	like	what	they	like,	and
Elaine	is	training	for	the	family	business,	and	the	boy	has	won	a	scholarship	at
Leeds,	and	the	old	lady	(who	is	about	his	own	age)	has	three	more	children	at
home;	and	they	have	two	motor	cars,	but	Mr.	Morris	still	mends	the	boots	on
Sunday:	it	is	superb,	it	is	absolutely	superb,	thought	Peter	Walsh,	swaying	a
little	 backwards	 and	 forwards	 with	 his	 liqueur	 glass	 in	 his	 hand	 among	 the
hairy	red	chairs	and	ash-trays,	feeling	very	well	pleased	with	himself,	for	the
Morrises	 liked	 him.	 Yes,	 they	 liked	 a	 man	 who	 said,	 "Bartlett	 pears."	 They
liked	him,	he	felt.

He	 would	 go	 to	 Clarissa's	 party.	 (The	 Morrises	 moved	 off;	 but	 they	 would
meet	 again.)	 He	 would	 go	 to	 Clarissa's	 party,	 because	 he	 wanted	 to	 ask
Richard	what	they	were	doing	in	India--the	conservative	duffers.	And	what's
being	acted?	And	music.	.	.	.	Oh	yes,	and	mere	gossip.

For	this	is	the	truth	about	our	soul,	he	thought,	our	self,	who	fish-like	inhabits
deep	seas	and	plies	among	obscurities	threading	her	way	between	the	boles	of
giant	weeds,	over	sun-flickered	spaces	and	on	and	on	into	gloom,	cold,	deep,
inscrutable;	 suddenly	 she	 shoots	 to	 the	 surface	 and	 sports	 on	 the	 wind-
wrinkled	waves;	that	is,	has	a	positive	need	to	brush,	scrape,	kindle	herself,
gossiping.	What	did	the	Government	mean--Richard	Dalloway	would	know--
to	do	about	India?

Since	 it	 was	 a	 very	 hot	 night	 and	 the	 paper	 boys	 went	 by	 with	 placards
proclaiming	in	huge	red	letters	that	there	was	a	heat-wave,	wicker	chairs	were
placed	on	the	hotel	steps	and	there,	sipping,	smoking,	detached	gentlemen	sat.
Peter	 Walsh	 sat	 there.	 One	 might	 fancy	 that	 day,	 the	 London	 day,	 was	 just
beginning.	Like	a	woman	who	had	slipped	off	her	print	dress	and	white	apron

to	array	herself	in	blue	and	pearls,	the	day	changed,	put	off	stuff,	took	gauze,
changed	 to	 evening,	 and	 with	 the	 same	 sigh	 of	 exhilaration	 that	 a	 woman
breathes,	 tumbling	 petticoats	 on	 the	 floor,	 it	 too	 shed	 dust,	 heat,	 colour;	 the
traffic	 thinned;	 motor	 cars,	 tinkling,	 darting,	 succeeded	 the	 lumber	 of	 vans;
and	 here	 and	 there	 among	 the	 thick	 foliage	 of	 the	 squares	 an	 intense	 light
hung.	 I	 resign,	 the	 evening	 seemed	 to	 say,	 as	 it	 paled	 and	 faded	 above	 the
battlements	 and	 prominences,	 moulded,	 pointed,	 of	 hotel,	 flat,	 and	 block	 of
shops,	I	fade,	she	was	beginning,	I	disappear,	but	London	would	have	none	of
it,	 and	 rushed	 her	 bayonets	 into	 the	 sky,	 pinioned	 her,	 constrained	 her	 to
partnership	in	her	revelry.

For	 the	 great	 revolution	 of	 Mr.	 Willett's	 summer	 time	 had	 taken	 place	 since
Peter	Walsh's	last	visit	to	England.	The	prolonged	evening	was	new	to	him.	It
was	inspiriting,	rather.	For	as	the	young	people	went	by	with	their	despatch-
boxes,	 awfully	 glad	 to	 be	 free,	 proud	 too,	 dumbly,	 of	 stepping	 this	 famous
pavement,	joy	of	a	kind,	cheap,	tinselly,	if	you	like,	but	all	the	same	rapture,
flushed	their	faces.	They	dressed	well	too;	pink	stockings;	pretty	shoes.	They
would	now	have	two	hours	at	the	pictures.	It	sharpened,	it	refined	them,	the
yellow-blue	evening	light;	and	on	the	leaves	in	the	square	shone	lurid,	livid--
they	looked	as	if	dipped	in	sea	water--the	foliage	of	a	submerged	city.	He	was
astonished	 by	 the	 beauty;	 it	 was	 encouraging	 too,	 for	 where	 the	 returned
Anglo-Indian	 sat	 by	 rights	 (he	 knew	 crowds	 of	 them)	 in	 the	 Oriental	 Club
biliously	summing	up	the	ruin	of	the	world,	here	was	he,	as	young	as	ever;
envying	 young	 people	 their	 summer	 time	 and	 the	 rest	 of	 it,	 and	 more	 than
suspecting	from	the	words	of	a	girl,	from	a	housemaid's	laughter--intangible
things	 you	 couldn't	 lay	 your	 hands	 on--that	 shift	 in	 the	 whole	 pyramidal
accumulation	which	in	his	youth	had	seemed	immovable.	On	top	of	them	it
had	 pressed;	 weighed	 them	 down,	 the	 women	 especially,	 like	 those	 flowers
Clarissa's	 Aunt	 Helena	 used	 to	 press	 between	 sheets	 of	 grey	 blotting-paper
with	 Littré's	 dictionary	 on	 top,	 sitting	 under	 the	 lamp	 after	 dinner.	 She	 was
dead	now.	He	had	heard	of	her,	from	Clarissa,	losing	the	sight	of	one	eye.	It
seemed	 so	 fitting--one	 of	 nature's	 masterpieces--that	 old	 Miss	 Parry	 should
turn	to	glass.	She	would	die	like	some	bird	in	a	frost	gripping	her	perch.	She
belonged	 to	 a	 different	 age,	 but	 being	 so	 entire,	 so	 complete,	 would	 always
stand	up	on	the	horizon,	stone-white,	eminent,	like	a	lighthouse	marking	some
past	stage	on	this	adventurous,	long,	long	voyage,	this	interminable	(he	felt	for
a	copper	to	buy	a	paper	and	read	about	Surrey	and	Yorkshire--he	had	held	out
that	copper	millions	of	times.	Surrey	was	all	out	once	more)--this	interminable
life.	 But	 cricket	 was	 no	 mere	 game.	 Cricket	 was	 important.	 He	 could	 never
help	reading	about	cricket.	He	read	the	scores	in	the	stop	press	first,	then	how
it	 was	 a	 hot	 day;	 then	 about	 a	 murder	 case.	 Having	 done	 things	 millions	 of
times	enriched	them,	though	it	might	be	said	to	take	the	surface	off.	The	past
enriched,	 and	 experience,	 and	 having	 cared	 for	 one	 or	 two	 people,	 and	 so

having	acquired	the	power	which	the	young	lack,	of	cutting	short,	doing	what
one	likes,	not	caring	a	rap	what	people	say	and	coming	and	going	without	any
very	great	expectations	(he	left	his	paper	on	the	table	and	moved	off),	which
however	(and	he	looked	for	his	hat	and	coat)	was	not	altogether	true	of	him,
not	to-night,	for	here	he	was	starting	to	go	to	a	party,	at	his	age,	with	the	belief
upon	him	that	he	was	about	to	have	an	experience.	But	what?

Beauty	anyhow.	Not	the	crude	beauty	of	the	eye.	It	was	not	beauty	pure	and
simple--Bedford	 Place	 leading	 into	 Russell	 Square.	 It	 was	 straightness	 and
emptiness	of	course;	the	symmetry	of	a	corridor;	but	it	was	also	windows	lit
up,	a	piano,	a	gramophone	sounding;	a	sense	of	pleasure-making	hidden,	but
now	and	again	emerging	when,	through	the	uncurtained	window,	the	window
left	 open,	 one	 saw	 parties	 sitting	 over	 tables,	 young	 people	 slowly	 circling,
conversations	 between	 men	 and	 women,	 maids	 idly	 looking	 out	 (a	 strange
comment	 theirs,	 when	 work	 was	 done),	 stockings	 drying	 on	 top	 ledges,	 a
parrot,	a	few	plants.	Absorbing,	mysterious,	of	infinite	richness,	this	life.	And
in	 the	 large	 square	 where	 the	 cabs	 shot	 and	 swerved	 so	 quick,	 there	 were
loitering	couples,	dallying,	embracing,	shrunk	up	under	the	shower	of	a	tree;
that	was	moving;	so	silent,	so	absorbed,	that	one	passed,	discreetly,	timidly,	as
if	 in	 the	 presence	 of	 some	 sacred	 ceremony	 to	 interrupt	 which	 would	 have
been	impious.	That	was	interesting.	And	so	on	into	the	flare	and	glare.

His	light	overcoat	blew	open,	he	stepped	with	indescribable	idiosyncrasy,	lent
a	 little	 forward,	 tripped,	 with	 his	 hands	 behind	 his	 back	 and	 his	 eyes	 still	 a
little	hawklike;	he	tripped	through	London,	towards	Westminster,	observing.

Was	everybody	dining	out,	then?	Doors	were	being	opened	here	by	a	footman
to	 let	 issue	 a	 high-stepping	 old	 dame,	 in	 buckled	 shoes,	 with	 three	 purple
ostrich	feathers	in	her	hair.	Doors	were	being	opened	for	ladies	wrapped	like
mummies	in	shawls	with	bright	flowers	on	them,	ladies	with	bare	heads.	And
in	respectable	quarters	with	stucco	pillars	through	small	front	gardens	lightly
swathed	with	combs	in	their	hair	(having	run	up	to	see	the	children),	women
came;	 men	 waited	 for	 them,	 with	 their	 coats	 blowing	 open,	 and	 the	 motor
started.	Everybody	was	going	out.	What	with	these	doors	being	opened,	and
the	descent	and	the	start,	it	seemed	as	if	the	whole	of	London	were	embarking
in	little	boats	moored	to	the	bank,	tossing	on	the	waters,	as	if	the	whole	place
were	floating	off	in	carnival.	And	Whitehall	was	skated	over,	silver	beaten	as
it	was,	skated	over	by	spiders,	and	there	was	a	sense	of	midges	round	the	arc
lamps;	it	was	so	hot	that	people	stood	about	talking.	And	here	in	Westminster
was	a	retired	Judge,	presumably,	sitting	four	square	at	his	house	door	dressed
all	in	white.	An	Anglo-Indian	presumably.

And	 here	 a	 shindy	 of	 brawling	 women,	 drunken	 women;	 here	 only	 a
policeman	 and	 looming	 houses,	 high	 houses,	 domed	 houses,	 churches,

parliaments,	and	the	hoot	of	a	steamer	on	the	river,	a	hollow	misty	cry.	But	it
was	her	street,	this,	Clarissa's;	cabs	were	rushing	round	the	corner,	like	water
round	 the	 piers	 of	 a	 bridge,	 drawn	 together,	 it	 seemed	 to	 him	 because	 they
bore	people	going	to	her	party,	Clarissa's	party.

The	cold	stream	of	visual	impressions	failed	him	now	as	if	the	eye	were	a	cup
that	overflowed	and	let	the	rest	run	down	its	china	walls	unrecorded.	The	brain
must	wake	now.	The	body	must	contract	now,	entering	the	house,	the	lighted
house,	where	the	door	stood	open,	where	the	motor	cars	were	standing,	and
bright	women	descending:	the	soul	must	brave	itself	to	endure.	He	opened	the
big	blade	of	his	pocket-knife.

	

	

Lucy	came	running	full	tilt	downstairs,	having	just	nipped	in	to	the	drawing-
room	 to	 smooth	 a	 cover,	 to	 straighten	 a	 chair,	 to	 pause	 a	 moment	 and	 feel
whoever	came	in	must	think	how	clean,	how	bright,	how	beautifully	cared	for,
when	they	saw	the	beautiful	silver,	the	brass	fire-irons,	the	new	chair-covers,
and	the	curtains	of	yellow	chintz:	she	appraised	each;	heard	a	roar	of	voices;
people	already	coming	up	from	dinner;	she	must	fly!

The	Prime	Minister	was	coming,	Agnes	said:	so	she	had	heard	them	say	in	the
dining-room,	she	said,	coming	in	with	a	tray	of	glasses.	Did	it	matter,	did	it
matter	in	the	least,	one	Prime	Minister	more	or	less?	It	made	no	difference	at
this	hour	of	the	night	to	Mrs.	Walker	among	the	plates,	saucepans,	cullenders,
frying-pans,	 chicken	 in	 aspic,	 ice-cream	 freezers,	 pared	 crusts	 of	 bread,
lemons,	soup	tureens,	and	pudding	basins	which,	however	hard	they	washed
up	 in	 the	 scullery	 seemed	 to	 be	 all	 on	 top	 of	 her,	 on	 the	 kitchen	 table,	 on
chairs,	 while	 the	 fire	 blared	 and	 roared,	 the	 electric	 lights	 glared,	 and	 still
supper	had	to	be	laid.	All	she	felt	was,	one	Prime	Minister	more	or	less	made
not	a	scrap	of	difference	to	Mrs.	Walker.

The	ladies	were	going	upstairs	already,	said	Lucy;	the	ladies	were	going	up,
one	by	one,	Mrs.	Dalloway	walking	last	and	almost	always	sending	back	some
message	to	the	kitchen,	"My	love	to	Mrs.	Walker,"	that	was	it	one	night.	Next
morning	 they	 would	 go	 over	 the	 dishes--the	 soup,	 the	 salmon;	 the	 salmon,
Mrs.	Walker	knew,	as	usual	underdone,	for	she	always	got	nervous	about	the
pudding	 and	 left	 it	 to	 Jenny;	 so	 it	 happened,	 the	 salmon	 was	 always
underdone.	But	some	lady	with	fair	hair	and	silver	ornaments	had	said,	Lucy
said,	about	the	entrée,	was	it	really	made	at	home?	But	it	was	the	salmon	that
bothered	Mrs.	Walker,	as	she	spun	the	plates	round	and	round,	and	pulled	in
dampers	and	pulled	out	dampers;	and	there	came	a	burst	of	laughter	from	the

dining-room;	a	voice	speaking;	then	another	burst	of	laughter--the	gentlemen
enjoying	themselves	when	the	ladies	had	gone.	The	tokay,	said	Lucy	running
in.	 Mr.	 Dalloway	 had	 sent	 for	 the	 tokay,	 from	 the	 Emperor's	 cellars,	 the
Imperial	Tokay.

It	was	borne	through	the	kitchen.	Over	her	shoulder	Lucy	reported	how	Miss
Elizabeth	looked	quite	lovely;	she	couldn't	take	her	eyes	off	her;	in	her	pink
dress,	 wearing	 the	 necklace	 Mr.	 Dalloway	 had	 given	 her.	 Jenny	 must
remember	the	dog,	Miss	Elizabeth's	fox-terrier,	which,	since	it	bit,	had	to	be
shut	up	and	might,	Elizabeth	thought,	want	something.	Jenny	must	remember
the	dog.	But	Jenny	was	not	going	upstairs	with	all	those	people	about.	There
was	 a	 motor	 at	 the	 door	 already!	 There	 was	 a	 ring	 at	 the	 bell--and	 the
gentlemen	still	in	the	dining-room,	drinking	tokay!

There,	 they	 were	 going	 upstairs;	 that	 was	 the	 first	 to	 come,	 and	 now	 they
would	come	faster	and	faster,	so	that	Mrs.	Parkinson	(hired	for	parties)	would
leave	the	hall	door	ajar,	and	the	hall	would	be	full	of	gentlemen	waiting	(they
stood	waiting,	sleeking	down	their	hair)	while	the	ladies	took	their	cloaks	off
in	 the	 room	 along	 the	 passage;	 where	 Mrs.	 Barnet	 helped	 them,	 old	 Ellen
Barnet,	who	had	been	with	the	family	for	forty	years,	and	came	every	summer
to	help	the	ladies,	and	remembered	mothers	when	they	were	girls,	and	though
very	unassuming	did	shake	hands;	said	"milady"	very	respectfully,	yet	had	a
humorous	 way	 with	 her,	 looking	 at	 the	 young	 ladies,	 and	 ever	 so	 tactfully
helping	Lady	Lovejoy,	who	had	some	trouble	with	her	underbodice.	And	they
could	not	help	feeling,	Lady	Lovejoy	and	Miss	Alice,	that	some	little	privilege
in	 the	 matter	 of	 brush	 and	 comb,	 was	 awarded	 them	 having	 known	 Mrs.
Barnet--"thirty	years,	milady,"	Mrs.	Barnet	supplied	her.	Young	ladies	did	not
use	to	rouge,	said	Lady	Lovejoy,	when	they	stayed	at	Bourton	in	the	old	days.
And	 Miss	 Alice	 didn't	 need	 rouge,	 said	 Mrs.	 Barnet,	 looking	 at	 her	 fondly.
There	 Mrs.	 Barnet	 would	 sit,	 in	 the	 cloakroom,	 patting	 down	 the	 furs,
smoothing	 out	 the	 Spanish	 shawls,	 tidying	 the	 dressing-table,	 and	 knowing
perfectly	 well,	 in	 spite	 of	 the	 furs	 and	 the	 embroideries,	 which	 were	 nice
ladies,	which	were	not.	The	dear	old	body,	said	Lady	Lovejoy,	mounting	the
stairs,	Clarissa's	old	nurse.

And	then	Lady	Lovejoy	stiffened.	"Lady	and	Miss	Lovejoy,"	she	said	to	Mr.
Wilkins	 (hired	 for	 parties).	 He	 had	 an	 admirable	 manner,	 as	 he	 bent	 and
straightened	 himself,	 bent	 and	 straightened	 himself	 and	 announced	 with
perfect	impartiality	"Lady	and	Miss	Lovejoy	.	.	.	Sir	John	and	Lady	Needham	.
.	.	Miss	Weld	.	.	.	Mr.	Walsh."	His	manner	was	admirable;	his	family	life	must
be	irreproachable,	except	that	it	seemed	impossible	that	a	being	with	greenish
lips	 and	 shaven	 cheeks	 could	 ever	 have	 blundered	 into	 the	 nuisance	 of
children.

"How	 delightful	 to	 see	 you!"	 said	 Clarissa.	 She	 said	 it	 to	 every	 one.	 How
delightful	to	see	you!	She	was	at	her	worst--effusive,	insincere.	It	was	a	great
mistake	 to	 have	 come.	 He	 should	 have	 stayed	 at	 home	 and	 read	 his	 book,
thought	Peter	Walsh;	should	have	gone	to	a	music	hall;	he	should	have	stayed
at	home,	for	he	knew	no	one.

Oh	dear,	it	was	going	to	be	a	failure;	a	complete	failure,	Clarissa	felt	it	in	her
bones	as	dear	old	Lord	Lexham	stood	there	apologising	for	his	wife	who	had
caught	cold	at	the	Buckingham	Palace	garden	party.	She	could	see	Peter	out	of
the	tail	of	her	eye,	criticising	her,	there,	in	that	corner.	Why,	after	all,	did	she
do	 these	 things?	 Why	 seek	 pinnacles	 and	 stand	 drenched	 in	 fire?	 Might	 it
consume	 her	 anyhow!	 Burn	 her	 to	 cinders!	 Better	 anything,	 better	 brandish
one's	torch	and	hurl	it	to	earth	than	taper	and	dwindle	away	like	some	Ellie
Henderson!	 It	 was	 extraordinary	 how	 Peter	 put	 her	 into	 these	 states	 just	 by
coming	and	standing	in	a	corner.	He	made	her	see	herself;	exaggerate.	It	was
idiotic.	 But	 why	 did	 he	 come,	 then,	 merely	 to	 criticise?	 Why	 always	 take,
never	 give?	 Why	 not	 risk	 one's	 one	 little	 point	 of	 view?	 There	 he	 was
wandering	off,	and	she	must	speak	to	him.	But	she	would	not	get	the	chance.
Life	was	that--humiliation,	renunciation.	What	Lord	Lexham	was	saying	was
that	his	wife	would	not	wear	her	furs	at	the	garden	party	because	"my	dear,
you	 ladies	 are	 all	 alike"--Lady	 Lexham	 being	 seventy-five	 at	 least!	 It	 was
delicious,	how	they	petted	each	other,	that	old	couple.	She	did	like	old	Lord
Lexham.	She	did	think	it	mattered,	her	party,	and	it	made	her	feel	quite	sick	to
know	that	it	was	all	going	wrong,	all	falling	flat.	Anything,	any	explosion,	any
horror	was	better	than	people	wandering	aimlessly,	standing	in	a	bunch	at	a
corner	like	Ellie	Henderson,	not	even	caring	to	hold	themselves	upright.

Gently	the	yellow	curtain	with	all	the	birds	of	Paradise	blew	out	and	it	seemed
as	if	there	were	a	flight	of	wings	into	the	room,	right	out,	then	sucked	back.
(For	 the	 windows	 were	 open.)	 Was	 it	 draughty,	 Ellie	 Henderson	 wondered?
She	 was	 subject	 to	 chills.	 But	 it	 did	 not	 matter	 that	 she	 should	 come	 down
sneezing	to-morrow;	it	was	the	girls	with	their	naked	shoulders	she	thought	of,
being	 trained	 to	 think	 of	 others	 by	 an	 old	 father,	 an	 invalid,	 late	 vicar	 of
Bourton,	but	he	was	dead	now;	and	her	chills	never	went	to	her	chest,	never.	It
was	 the	 girls	 she	 thought	 of,	 the	 young	 girls	 with	 their	 bare	 shoulders,	 she
herself	having	always	been	a	wisp	of	a	creature,	with	her	thin	hair	and	meagre
profile;	 though	 now,	 past	 fifty,	 there	 was	 beginning	 to	 shine	 through	 some
mild	beam,	something	purified	into	distinction	by	years	of	self-abnegation	but
obscured	again,	perpetually,	by	her	distressing	gentility,	her	panic	fear,	which
arose	from	three	hundred	pounds'	income,	and	her	weaponless	state	(she	could
not	earn	a	penny)	and	it	made	her	timid,	and	more	and	more	disqualified	year
by	year	to	meet	well-dressed	people	who	did	this	sort	of	thing	every	night	of
the	 season,	 merely	 telling	 their	 maids	 "I'll	 wear	 so	 and	 so,"	 whereas	 Ellie

Henderson	ran	out	nervously	and	bought	cheap	pink	flowers,	half	a	dozen,	and
then	 threw	 a	 shawl	 over	 her	 old	 black	 dress.	 For	 her	 invitation	 to	 Clarissa's
party	had	come	at	the	last	moment.	She	was	not	quite	happy	about	it.	She	had
a	sort	of	feeling	that	Clarissa	had	not	meant	to	ask	her	this	year.

Why	 should	 she?	 There	 was	 no	 reason	 really,	 except	 that	 they	 had	 always
known	 each	 other.	 Indeed,	 they	 were	 cousins.	 But	 naturally	 they	 had	 rather
drifted	apart,	Clarissa	being	so	sought	after.	It	was	an	event	to	her,	going	to	a
party.	It	was	quite	a	treat	just	to	see	the	lovely	clothes.	Wasn't	that	Elizabeth,
grown	up,	with	her	hair	done	in	the	fashionable	way,	in	the	pink	dress?	Yet	she
could	 not	 be	 more	 than	 seventeen.	 She	 was	 very,	 very	 handsome.	 But	 girls
when	they	first	came	out	didn't	seem	to	wear	white	as	they	used.	(She	must
remember	everything	to	tell	Edith.)	Girls	wore	straight	frocks,	perfectly	tight,
with	skirts	well	above	the	ankles.	It	was	not	becoming,	she	thought.

So,	 with	 her	 weak	 eyesight,	 Ellie	 Henderson	 craned	 rather	 forward,	 and	 it
wasn't	 so	 much	 she	 who	 minded	 not	 having	 any	 one	 to	 talk	 to	 (she	 hardly
knew	anybody	there),	for	she	felt	that	they	were	all	such	interesting	people	to
watch;	politicians	presumably;	Richard	Dalloway's	friends;	but	it	was	Richard
himself	who	felt	that	he	could	not	let	the	poor	creature	go	on	standing	there	all
the	evening	by	herself.

"Well,	Ellie,	and	how's	the	world	treating	you?"	he	said	in	his	genial	way,	and
Ellie	 Henderson,	 getting	 nervous	 and	 flushing	 and	 feeling	 that	 it	 was
extraordinarily	 nice	 of	 him	 to	 come	 and	 talk	 to	 her,	 said	 that	 many	 people
really	felt	the	heat	more	than	the	cold.

"Yes,	they	do,"	said	Richard	Dalloway.	"Yes."

But	what	more	did	one	say?

"Hullo,	Richard,"	said	somebody,	taking	him	by	the	elbow,	and,	good	Lord,
there	 was	 old	 Peter,	 old	 Peter	 Walsh.	 He	 was	 delighted	 to	 see	 him--ever	 so
pleased	 to	 see	 him!	 He	 hadn't	 changed	 a	 bit.	 And	 off	 they	 went	 together
walking	right	across	the	room,	giving	each	other	little	pats,	as	if	they	hadn't
met	for	a	long	time,	Ellie	Henderson	thought,	watching	them	go,	certain	she
knew	that	man's	face.	A	tall	man,	middle	aged,	rather	fine	eyes,	dark,	wearing
spectacles,	with	a	look	of	John	Burrows.	Edith	would	be	sure	to	know.

The	curtain	with	its	flight	of	birds	of	Paradise	blew	out	again.	And	Clarissa
saw--she	saw	Ralph	Lyon	beat	it	back,	and	go	on	talking.	So	it	wasn't	a	failure
after	 all!	 it	 was	 going	 to	 be	 all	 right	 now--her	 party.	 It	 had	 begun.	 It	 had
started.	 But	 it	 was	 still	 touch	 and	 go.	 She	 must	 stand	 there	 for	 the	 present.
People	seemed	to	come	in	a	rush.

Colonel	and	Mrs.	Garrod	.	.	.	Mr.	Hugh	Whitbread	.	.	.	Mr.	Bowley	.	.	.	Mrs.
Hilbery	.	.	.	Lady	Mary	Maddox	.	.	.	Mr.	Quin	.	.	.	intoned	Wilkin.	She	had	six
or	seven	words	with	each,	and	they	went	on,	they	went	into	the	rooms;	into
something	now,	not	nothing,	since	Ralph	Lyon	had	beat	back	the	curtain.

And	yet	for	her	own	part,	it	was	too	much	of	an	effort.	She	was	not	enjoying
it.	It	was	too	much	like	being--just	anybody,	standing	there;	anybody	could	do
it;	yet	this	anybody	she	did	a	little	admire,	couldn't	help	feeling	that	she	had,
anyhow,	made	this	happen,	that	it	marked	a	stage,	this	post	that	she	felt	herself
to	 have	 become,	 for	 oddly	 enough	 she	 had	 quite	 forgotten	 what	 she	 looked
like,	but	felt	herself	a	stake	driven	in	at	the	top	of	her	stairs.	Every	time	she
gave	a	party	she	had	this	feeling	of	being	something	not	herself,	and	that	every
one	was	unreal	in	one	way;	much	more	real	in	another.	It	was,	she	thought,
partly	their	clothes,	partly	being	taken	out	of	their	ordinary	ways,	partly	the
background,	it	was	possible	to	say	things	you	couldn't	say	anyhow	else,	things
that	 needed	 an	 effort;	 possible	 to	 go	 much	 deeper.	 But	 not	 for	 her;	 not	 yet
anyhow.

"How	delightful	to	see	you!"	she	said.	Dear	old	Sir	Harry!	He	would	know
every	one.

And	what	was	so	odd	about	it	was	the	sense	one	had	as	they	came	up	the	stairs
one	after	another,	Mrs.	Mount	and	Celia,	Herbert	Ainsty,	Mrs.	Dakers--oh	and
Lady	Bruton!

"How	awfully	good	of	you	to	come!"	she	said,	and	she	meant	it--it	was	odd
how	standing	there	one	felt	them	going	on,	going	on,	some	quite	old,	some	.	.	.

What	name?	Lady	Rosseter?	But	who	on	earth	was	Lady	Rosseter?

"Clarissa!"	That	voice!	It	was	Sally	Seton!	Sally	Seton!	after	all	these	years!
She	loomed	through	a	mist.	For	she	hadn't	looked	like	that,	Sally	Seton,	when
Clarissa	grasped	the	hot	water	can,	to	think	of	her	under	this	roof,	under	this
roof!	Not	like	that!

All	on	top	of	each	other,	embarrassed,	laughing,	words	tumbled	out--passing
through	London;	heard	from	Clara	Haydon;	what	a	chance	of	seeing	you!	So	I
thrust	myself	in--without	an	invitation.	.	.	.

One	might	put	down	the	hot	water	can	quite	composedly.	The	lustre	had	gone
out	of	her.	Yet	it	was	extraordinary	to	see	her	again,	older,	happier,	less	lovely.
They	kissed	each	other,	first	this	cheek	then	that,	by	the	drawing-room	door,
and	Clarissa	turned,	with	Sally's	hand	in	hers,	and	saw	her	rooms	full,	heard
the	 roar	 of	 voices,	 saw	 the	 candlesticks,	 the	 blowing	 curtains,	 and	 the	 roses
which	Richard	had	given	her.

"I	have	five	enormous	boys,"	said	Sally.

She	had	the	simplest	egotism,	the	most	open	desire	to	be	thought	first	always,
and	Clarissa	loved	her	for	being	still	like	that.	"I	can't	believe	it!"	she	cried,
kindling	all	over	with	pleasure	at	the	thought	of	the	past.

But	 alas,	 Wilkins;	 Wilkins	 wanted	 her;	 Wilkins	 was	 emitting	 in	 a	 voice	 of
commanding	authority	as	if	the	whole	company	must	be	admonished	and	the
hostess	reclaimed	from	frivolity,	one	name:

"The	Prime	Minister,"	said	Peter	Walsh.

The	Prime	Minister?	Was	it	really?	Ellie	Henderson	marvelled.	What	a	thing
to	tell	Edith!

One	couldn't	laugh	at	him.	He	looked	so	ordinary.	You	might	have	stood	him
behind	 a	 counter	 and	 bought	 biscuits--poor	 chap,	 all	 rigged	 up	 in	 gold	 lace.
And	 to	 be	 fair,	 as	 he	 went	 his	 rounds,	 first	 with	 Clarissa	 then	 with	 Richard
escorting	him,	he	did	it	very	well.	He	tried	to	look	somebody.	It	was	amusing
to	 watch.	 Nobody	 looked	 at	 him.	 They	 just	 went	 on	 talking,	 yet	 it	 was
perfectly	 plain	 that	 they	 all	 knew,	 felt	 to	 the	 marrow	 of	 their	 bones,	 this
majesty	passing;	this	symbol	of	what	they	all	stood	for,	English	society.	Old
Lady	Bruton,	and	she	looked	very	fine	too,	very	stalwart	in	her	lace,	swam	up,
and	 they	 withdrew	 into	 a	 little	 room	 which	 at	 once	 became	 spied	 upon,
guarded,	and	a	sort	of	stir	and	rustle	rippled	through	every	one,	openly:	the
Prime	Minister!

Lord,	lord,	the	snobbery	of	the	English!	thought	Peter	Walsh,	standing	in	the
corner.	 How	 they	 loved	 dressing	 up	 in	 gold	 lace	 and	 doing	 homage!	 There!
That	must	be,	by	Jove	it	was,	Hugh	Whitbread,	snuffing	round	the	precincts	of
the	great,	grown	rather	fatter,	rather	whiter,	the	admirable	Hugh!

He	 looked	 always	 as	 if	 he	 were	 on	 duty,	 thought	 Peter,	 a	 privileged,	 but
secretive	being,	hoarding	secrets	which	he	would	die	to	defend,	though	it	was
only	some	little	piece	of	tittle-tattle	dropped	by	a	court	footman,	which	would
be	in	all	the	papers	tomorrow.	Such	were	his	rattles,	his	baubles,	in	playing
with	which	he	had	grown	white,	come	to	the	verge	of	old	age,	enjoying	the
respect	and	affection	of	all	who	had	the	privilege	of	knowing	this	type	of	the
English	 public	 school	 man.	 Inevitably	 one	 made	 up	 things	 like	 that	 about
Hugh;	that	was	his	style;	the	style	of	those	admirable	letters	which	Peter	had
read	thousands	of	miles	across	the	sea	in	the	Times,	and	had	thanked	God	he
was	 out	 of	 that	 pernicious	 hubble-bubble	 if	 it	 were	 only	 to	 hear	 baboons
chatter	and	coolies	beat	their	wives.	An	olive-skinned	youth	from	one	of	the
Universities	 stood	 obsequiously	 by.	 Him	 he	 would	 patronise,	 initiate,	 teach
how	to	get	on.	For	he	liked	nothing	better	than	doing	kindnesses,	making	the

hearts	of	old	ladies	palpitate	with	the	joy	of	being	thought	of	in	their	age,	their
affliction,	thinking	themselves	quite	forgotten,	yet	here	was	dear	Hugh	driving
up	and	spending	an	hour	talking	of	the	past,	remembering	trifles,	praising	the
home-made	cake,	though	Hugh	might	eat	cake	with	a	Duchess	any	day	of	his
life,	 and,	 to	 look	 at	 him,	 probably	 did	 spend	 a	 good	 deal	 of	 time	 in	 that
agreeable	occupation.	The	All-judging,	the	All-merciful,	might	excuse.	Peter
Walsh	had	no	mercy.	Villains	there	must	be,	and	God	knows	the	rascals	who
get	hanged	for	battering	the	brains	of	a	girl	out	in	a	train	do	less	harm	on	the
whole	 than	 Hugh	 Whitbread	 and	 his	 kindness.	 Look	 at	 him	 now,	 on	 tiptoe,
dancing	forward,	bowing	and	scraping,	as	the	Prime	Minister	and	Lady	Bruton
emerged,	 intimating	 for	 all	 the	 world	 to	 see	 that	 he	 was	 privileged	 to	 say
something,	something	private,	to	Lady	Bruton	as	she	passed.	She	stopped.	She
wagged	her	fine	old	head.	She	was	thanking	him	presumably	for	some	piece	of
servility.	She	had	her	toadies,	minor	officials	in	Government	offices	who	ran
about	putting	through	little	jobs	on	her	behalf,	in	return	for	which	she	gave
them	luncheon.	But	she	derived	from	the	eighteenth	century.	She	was	all	right.

And	 now	 Clarissa	 escorted	 her	 Prime	 Minister	 down	 the	 room,	 prancing,
sparkling,	 with	 the	 stateliness	 of	 her	 grey	 hair.	 She	 wore	 ear-rings,	 and	 a
silver-green	mermaid's	dress.	Lolloping	on	the	waves	and	braiding	her	tresses
she	seemed,	having	that	gift	still;	to	be;	to	exist;	to	sum	it	all	up	in	the	moment
as	she	passed;	turned,	caught	her	scarf	in	some	other	woman's	dress,	unhitched
it,	laughed,	all	with	the	most	perfect	ease	and	air	of	a	creature	floating	in	its
element.	 But	 age	 had	 brushed	 her;	 even	 as	 a	 mermaid	 might	 behold	 in	 her
glass	the	setting	sun	on	some	very	clear	evening	over	the	waves.	There	was	a
breath	 of	 tenderness;	 her	 severity,	 her	 prudery,	 her	 woodenness	 were	 all
warmed	through	now,	and	she	had	about	her	as	she	said	good-bye	to	the	thick
gold-laced	 man	 who	 was	 doing	 his	 best,	 and	 good	 luck	 to	 him,	 to	 look
important,	 an	 inexpressible	 dignity;	 an	 exquisite	 cordiality;	 as	 if	 she	 wished
the	 whole	 world	 well,	 and	 must	 now,	 being	 on	 the	 very	 verge	 and	 rim	 of
things,	take	her	leave.	So	she	made	him	think.	(But	he	was	not	in	love.)

Indeed,	Clarissa	felt,	the	Prime	Minister	had	been	good	to	come.	And,	walking
down	the	room	with	him,	with	Sally	there	and	Peter	there	and	Richard	very
pleased,	 with	 all	 those	 people	 rather	 inclined,	 perhaps,	 to	 envy,	 she	 had	 felt
that	intoxication	of	the	moment,	that	dilatation	of	the	nerves	of	the	heart	itself
till	it	seemed	to	quiver,	steeped,	upright;--yes,	but	after	all	it	was	what	other
people	felt,	that;	for,	though	she	loved	it	and	felt	it	tingle	and	sting,	still	these
semblances,	 these	 triumphs	 (dear	 old	 Peter,	 for	 example,	 thinking	 her	 so
brilliant),	had	a	hollowness;	at	arm's	length	they	were,	not	in	the	heart;	and	it
might	 be	 that	 she	 was	 growing	 old	 but	 they	 satisfied	 her	 no	 longer	 as	 they
used;	and	suddenly,	as	she	saw	the	Prime	Minister	go	down	the	stairs,	the	gilt
rim	of	the	Sir	Joshua	picture	of	the	little	girl	with	a	muff	brought	back	Kilman

with	a	rush;	Kilman	her	enemy.	That	was	satisfying;	that	was	real.	Ah,	how
she	 hated	 her--hot,	 hypocritical,	 corrupt;	 with	 all	 that	 power;	 Elizabeth's
seducer;	the	woman	who	had	crept	in	to	steal	and	defile	(Richard	would	say,
What	nonsense!).	She	hated	her:	she	loved	her.	It	was	enemies	one	wanted,	not
friends--not	 Mrs.	 Durrant	 and	 Clara,	 Sir	 William	 and	 Lady	 Bradshaw,	 Miss
Truelock	 and	 Eleanor	 Gibson	 (whom	 she	 saw	 coming	 upstairs).	 They	 must
find	her	if	they	wanted	her.	She	was	for	the	party!

There	was	her	old	friend	Sir	Harry.

"Dear	Sir	Harry!"	she	said,	going	up	to	the	fine	old	fellow	who	had	produced
more	bad	pictures	than	any	other	two	Academicians	in	the	whole	of	St.	John's
Wood	 (they	 were	 always	 of	 cattle,	 standing	 in	 sunset	 pools	 absorbing
moisture,	or	signifying,	for	he	had	a	certain	range	of	gesture,	by	the	raising	of
one	foreleg	and	the	toss	of	the	antlers,	"the	Approach	of	the	Stranger"--all	his
activities,	 dining	 out,	 racing,	 were	 founded	 on	 cattle	 standing	 absorbing
moisture	in	sunset	pools).

"What	are	you	laughing	at?"	she	asked	him.	For	Willie	Titcomb	and	Sir	Harry
and	Herbert	Ainsty	were	all	laughing.	But	no.	Sir	Harry	could	not	tell	Clarissa
Dalloway	(much	though	he	liked	her;	of	her	type	he	thought	her	perfect,	and
threatened	 to	 paint	 her)	 his	 stories	 of	 the	 music	 hall	 stage.	 He	 chaffed	 her
about	her	party.	He	missed	his	brandy.	These	circles,	he	said,	were	above	him.
But	he	liked	her;	respected	her,	in	spite	of	her	damnable,	difficult	upper-class
refinement,	which	made	it	impossible	to	ask	Clarissa	Dalloway	to	sit	on	his
knee.	 And	 up	 came	
that	 vagulous
phosphorescence,	 old	 Mrs.	 Hilbery,	 stretching	 her	 hands	 to	 the	 blaze	 of	 his
laughter	 (about	 the	 Duke	 and	 the	 Lady),	 which,	 as	 she	 heard	 it	 across	 the
room,	seemed	to	reassure	her	on	a	point	which	sometimes	bothered	her	if	she
woke	early	in	the	morning	and	did	not	like	to	call	her	maid	for	a	cup	of	tea;
how	it	is	certain	we	must	die.

that	 wandering	 will-o'-the-wisp,	

"They	won't	tell	us	their	stories,"	said	Clarissa.

"Dear	Clarissa!"	exclaimed	Mrs.	Hilbery.	She	looked	to-night,	she	said,	so	like
her	mother	as	she	first	saw	her	walking	in	a	garden	in	a	grey	hat.

And	really	Clarissa's	eyes	filled	with	tears.	Her	mother,	walking	in	a	garden!
But	alas,	she	must	go.

For	there	was	Professor	Brierly,	who	lectured	on	Milton,	talking	to	little	Jim
Hutton	 (who	 was	 unable	 even	 for	 a	 party	 like	 this	 to	 compass	 both	 tie	 and
waistcoat	 or	 make	 his	 hair	 lie	 flat),	 and	 even	 at	 this	 distance	 they	 were
quarrelling,	she	could	see.	For	Professor	Brierly	was	a	very	queer	fish.	With
all	 those	 degrees,	 honours,	 lectureships	 between	 him	 and	 the	 scribblers	 he

suspected	instantly	an	atmosphere	not	favourable	to	his	queer	compound;	his
prodigious	 learning	 and	 timidity;	 his	 wintry	 charm	 without	 cordiality;	 his
innocence	 blent	 with	 snobbery;	 he	 quivered	 if	 made	 conscious	 by	 a	 lady's
unkempt	hair,	a	youth's	boots,	of	an	underworld,	very	creditable	doubtless,	of
rebels,	 of	 ardent	 young	 people;	 of	 would-be	 geniuses,	 and	 intimated	 with	 a
little	toss	of	the	head,	with	a	sniff--Humph!--the	value	of	moderation;	of	some
slight	training	in	the	classics	in	order	to	appreciate	Milton.	Professor	Brierly
(Clarissa	could	see)	wasn't	hitting	it	off	with	little	Jim	Hutton	(who	wore	red
socks,	his	black	being	at	the	laundry)	about	Milton.	She	interrupted.

She	said	she	loved	Bach.	So	did	Hutton.	That	was	the	bond	between	them,	and
Hutton	(a	very	bad	poet)	always	felt	that	Mrs.	Dalloway	was	far	the	best	of	the
great	ladies	who	took	an	interest	in	art.	It	was	odd	how	strict	she	was.	About
music	she	was	purely	impersonal.	She	was	rather	a	prig.	But	how	charming	to
look	at!	She	made	her	house	so	nice	if	it	weren't	for	her	Professors.	Clarissa
had	half	a	mind	to	snatch	him	off	and	set	him	down	at	the	piano	in	the	back
room.	For	he	played	divinely.

"But	the	noise!"	she	said.	"The	noise!"

"The	 sign	 of	 a	 successful	 party."	 Nodding	 urbanely,	 the	 Professor	 stepped
delicately	off.

"He	knows	everything	in	the	whole	world	about	Milton,"	said	Clarissa.

"Does	he	indeed?"	said	Hutton,	who	would	imitate	the	Professor	throughout
Hampstead;	 the	 Professor	 on	 Milton;	 the	 Professor	 on	 moderation;	 the
Professor	stepping	delicately	off.

But	 she	 must	 speak	 to	 that	 couple,	 said	 Clarissa,	 Lord	 Gayton	 and	 Nancy
Blow.

Not	that	they	added	perceptibly	to	the	noise	of	the	party.	They	were	not	talking
(perceptibly)	 as	 they	 stood	 side	 by	 side	 by	 the	 yellow	 curtains.	 They	 would
soon	 be	 off	 elsewhere,	 together;	 and	 never	 had	 very	 much	 to	 say	 in	 any
circumstances.	They	looked;	that	was	all.	That	was	enough.	They	looked	so
clean,	 so	 sound,	 she	 with	 an	 apricot	 bloom	 of	 powder	 and	 paint,	 but	 he
scrubbed,	 rinsed,	 with	 the	 eyes	 of	 a	 bird,	 so	 that	 no	 ball	 could	 pass	 him	 or
stroke	 surprise	 him.	 He	 struck,	 he	 leapt,	 accurately,	 on	 the	 spot.	 Ponies'
mouths	 quivered	 at	 the	 end	 of	 his	 reins.	 He	 had	 his	 honours,	 ancestral
monuments,	 banners	 hanging	 in	 the	 church	 at	 home.	 He	 had	 his	 duties;	 his
tenants;	a	mother	and	sisters;	had	been	all	day	at	Lords,	and	that	was	what	they
were	talking	about--cricket,	cousins,	the	movies--when	Mrs.	Dalloway	came
up.	 Lord	 Gayton	 liked	 her	 most	 awfully.	 So	 did	 Miss	 Blow.	 She	 had	 such
charming	manners.

"It	is	angelic--it	is	delicious	of	you	to	have	come!"	she	said.	She	loved	Lords;
she	 loved	 youth,	 and	 Nancy,	 dressed	 at	 enormous	 expense	 by	 the	 greatest
artists	in	Paris,	stood	there	looking	as	if	her	body	had	merely	put	forth,	of	its
own	accord,	a	green	frill.

"I	had	meant	to	have	dancing,"	said	Clarissa.

For	the	young	people	could	not	talk.	And	why	should	they?	Shout,	embrace,
swing,	 be	 up	 at	 dawn;	 carry	 sugar	 to	 ponies;	 kiss	 and	 caress	 the	 snouts	 of
adorable	chows;	and	then	all	tingling	and	streaming,	plunge	and	swim.	But	the
enormous	resources	of	the	English	language,	the	power	it	bestows,	after	all,	of
communicating	feelings	(at	their	age,	she	and	Peter	would	have	been	arguing
all	the	evening),	was	not	for	them.	They	would	solidify	young.	They	would	be
good	beyond	measure	to	the	people	on	the	estate,	but	alone,	perhaps,	rather
dull.

"What	a	pity!"	she	said.	"I	had	hoped	to	have	dancing."

It	was	so	extraordinarily	nice	of	them	to	have	come!	But	talk	of	dancing!	The
rooms	were	packed.

There	 was	 old	 Aunt	 Helena	 in	 her	 shawl.	 Alas,	 she	 must	 leave	 them--Lord
Gayton	and	Nancy	Blow.	There	was	old	Miss	Parry,	her	aunt.

For	 Miss	 Helena	 Parry	 was	 not	 dead:	 Miss	 Parry	 was	 alive.	 She	 was	 past
eighty.	She	ascended	staircases	slowly	with	a	stick.	She	was	placed	in	a	chair
(Richard	had	seen	to	it).	People	who	had	known	Burma	in	the	'seventies	were
always	led	up	to	her.	Where	had	Peter	got	to?	They	used	to	be	such	friends.
For	 at	 the	 mention	 of	 India,	 or	 even	 Ceylon,	 her	 eyes	 (only	 one	 was	 glass)
slowly	deepened,	became	blue,	beheld,	not	human	beings--she	had	no	tender
memories,	 no	 proud	 illusions	 about	 Viceroys,	 Generals,	 Mutinies--it	 was
orchids	 she	 saw,	 and	 mountain	 passes	 and	 herself	 carried	 on	 the	 backs	 of
coolies	 in	 the	 'sixties	 over	 solitary	 peaks;	 or	 descending	 to	 uproot	 orchids
(startling	blossoms,	never	beheld	before)	which	she	painted	in	water-colour;
an	 indomitable	 Englishwoman,	 fretful	 if	 disturbed	 by	 the	 War,	 say,	 which
dropped	a	bomb	at	her	very	door,	from	her	deep	meditation	over	orchids	and
her	own	figure	journeying	in	the	'sixties	in	India--but	here	was	Peter.

"Come	and	talk	to	Aunt	Helena	about	Burma,"	said	Clarissa.

And	yet	he	had	not	had	a	word	with	her	all	the	evening!

"We	will	talk	later,"	said	Clarissa,	leading	him	up	to	Aunt	Helena,	in	her	white
shawl,	with	her	stick.

"Peter	Walsh,"	said	Clarissa.

That	meant	nothing.

Clarissa	had	asked	her.	It	was	tiring;	it	was	noisy;	but	Clarissa	had	asked	her.
So	 she	 had	 come.	 It	 was	 a	 pity	 that	 they	 lived	 in	 London--Richard	 and
Clarissa.	If	only	for	Clarissa's	health	it	would	have	been	better	to	live	in	the
country.	But	Clarissa	had	always	been	fond	of	society.

"He	has	been	in	Burma,"	said	Clarissa.

Ah.	 She	 could	 not	 resist	 recalling	 what	 Charles	 Darwin	 had	 said	 about	 her
little	book	on	the	orchids	of	Burma.

(Clarissa	must	speak	to	Lady	Bruton.)

No	doubt	it	was	forgotten	now,	her	book	on	the	orchids	of	Burma,	but	it	went
into	three	editions	before	1870,	she	told	Peter.	She	remembered	him	now.	He
had	been	at	Bourton	(and	he	had	left	her,	Peter	Walsh	remembered,	without	a
word	 in	 the	 drawing-room	 that	 night	 when	 Clarissa	 had	 asked	 him	 to	 come
boating).

"Richard	so	much	enjoyed	his	lunch	party,"	said	Clarissa	to	Lady	Bruton.

"Richard	was	the	greatest	possible	help,"	Lady	Bruton	replied.	"He	helped	me
to	write	a	letter.	And	how	are	you?"

"Oh,	perfectly	well!"	said	Clarissa.	(Lady	Bruton	detested	illness	in	the	wives
of	politicians.)

"And	 there's	 Peter	 Walsh!"	 said	 Lady	 Bruton	 (for	 she	 could	 never	 think	 of
anything	to	say	to	Clarissa;	though	she	liked	her.	She	had	lots	of	fine	qualities;
but	they	had	nothing	in	common--she	and	Clarissa.	It	might	have	been	better	if
Richard	had	married	a	woman	with	less	charm,	who	would	have	helped	him
more	 in	 his	 work.	 He	 had	 lost	 his	 chance	 of	 the	 Cabinet).	 "There's	 Peter
Walsh!"	 she	 said,	 shaking	 hands	 with	 that	 agreeable	 sinner,	 that	 very	 able
fellow	 who	 should	 have	 made	 a	 name	 for	 himself	 but	 hadn't	 (always	 in
difficulties	with	women),	and,	of	course,	old	Miss	Parry.	Wonderful	old	lady!

Lady	Bruton	stood	by	Miss	Parry's	chair,	a	spectral	grenadier,	draped	in	black,
inviting	 Peter	 Walsh	 to	 lunch;	 cordial;	 but	 without	 small	 talk,	 remembering
nothing	 whatever	 about	 the	 flora	 or	 fauna	 of	 India.	 She	 had	 been	 there,	 of
course;	had	stayed	with	three	Viceroys;	thought	some	of	the	Indian	civilians
uncommonly	fine	fellows;	but	what	a	tragedy	it	was--the	state	of	India!	The
Prime	 Minister	 had	 just	 been	 telling	 her	 (old	 Miss	 Parry	 huddled	 up	 in	 her
shawl,	 did	 not	 care	 what	 the	 Prime	 Minister	 had	 just	 been	 telling	 her),	 and
Lady	Bruton	would	like	to	have	Peter	Walsh's	opinion,	he	being	fresh	from	the
centre,	and	she	would	get	Sir	Sampson	to	meet	him,	for	really	it	prevented	her

from	sleeping	at	night,	the	folly	of	it,	the	wickedness	she	might	say,	being	a
soldier's	daughter.	She	was	an	old	woman	now,	not	good	for	much.	But	her
house,	her	servants,	her	good	friend	Milly	Brush--did	he	remember	her?--were
all	there	only	asking	to	be	used	if--if	they	could	be	of	help,	in	short.	For	she
never	spoke	of	England,	but	this	isle	of	men,	this	dear,	dear	land,	was	in	her
blood	(without	reading	Shakespeare),	and	if	ever	a	woman	could	have	worn
the	 helmet	 and	 shot	 the	 arrow,	 could	 have	 led	 troops	 to	 attack,	 ruled	 with
indomitable	 justice	 barbarian	 hordes	 and	 lain	 under	 a	 shield	 noseless	 in	 a
church,	or	made	a	green	grass	mound	on	some	primeval	hillside,	that	woman
was	 Millicent	 Bruton.	 Debarred	 by	 her	 sex	 and	 some	 truancy,	 too,	 of	 the
logical	faculty	(she	found	it	impossible	to	write	a	letter	to	the	Times),	she	had
the	thought	of	Empire	always	at	hand,	and	had	acquired	from	her	association
with	that	armoured	goddess	her	ramrod	bearing,	her	robustness	of	demeanour,
so	that	one	could	not	figure	her	even	in	death	parted	from	the	earth	or	roaming
territories	over	which,	in	some	spiritual	shape,	the	Union	Jack	had	ceased	to
fly.	To	be	not	English	even	among	the	dead--no,	no!	Impossible!

But	was	it	Lady	Bruton	(whom	she	used	to	know)?	Was	it	Peter	Walsh	grown
grey?	 Lady	 Rosseter	 asked	 herself	 (who	 had	 been	 Sally	 Seton).	 It	 was	 old
Miss	Parry	certainly--the	old	aunt	who	used	to	be	so	cross	when	she	stayed	at
Bourton.	Never	should	she	forget	running	along	the	passage	naked,	and	being
sent	for	by	Miss	Parry!	And	Clarissa!	oh	Clarissa!	Sally	caught	her	by	the	arm.

Clarissa	stopped	beside	them.

"But	I	can't	stay,"	she	said.	"I	shall	come	later.	Wait,"	she	said,	looking	at	Peter
and	Sally.	They	must	wait,	she	meant,	until	all	these	people	had	gone.

"I	shall	come	back,"	she	said,	looking	at	her	old	friends,	Sally	and	Peter,	who
were	shaking	hands,	and	Sally,	remembering	the	past	no	doubt,	was	laughing.

But	her	voice	was	wrung	of	its	old	ravishing	richness;	her	eyes	not	aglow	as
they	used	to	be,	when	she	smoked	cigars,	when	she	ran	down	the	passage	to
fetch	 her	 sponge	 bag,	 without	 a	 stitch	 of	 clothing	 on	 her,	 and	 Ellen	 Atkins
asked,	 What	 if	 the	 gentlemen	 had	 met	 her?	 But	 everybody	 forgave	 her.	 She
stole	 a	 chicken	 from	 the	 larder	 because	 she	 was	 hungry	 in	 the	 night;	 she
smoked	 cigars	 in	 her	 bedroom;	 she	 left	 a	 priceless	 book	 in	 the	 punt.	 But
everybody	adored	her	(except	perhaps	Papa).	It	was	her	warmth;	her	vitality--
she	would	paint,	she	would	write.	Old	women	in	the	village	never	to	this	day
forgot	to	ask	after	"your	friend	in	the	red	cloak	who	seemed	so	bright."	She
accused	Hugh	Whitbread,	of	all	people	(and	there	he	was,	her	old	friend	Hugh,
talking	to	the	Portuguese	Ambassador),	of	kissing	her	in	the	smoking-room	to
punish	her	for	saying	that	women	should	have	votes.	Vulgar	men	did,	she	said.
And	 Clarissa	 remembered	 having	 to	 persuade	 her	 not	 to	 denounce	 him	 at

family	 prayers--which	 she	 was	 capable	 of	 doing	 with	 her	 daring,	 her
recklessness,	 her	 melodramatic	 love	 of	 being	 the	 centre	 of	 everything	 and
creating	scenes,	and	it	was	bound,	Clarissa	used	to	think,	to	end	in	some	awful
tragedy;	 her	 death;	 her	 martyrdom;	 instead	 of	 which	 she	 had	 married,	 quite
unexpectedly,	 a	 bald	 man	 with	 a	 large	 buttonhole	 who	 owned,	 it	 was	 said,
cotton	mills	at	Manchester.	And	she	had	five	boys!

She	 and	 Peter	 had	 settled	 down	 together.	 They	 were	 talking:	 it	 seemed	 so
familiar--that	 they	 should	 be	 talking.	 They	 would	 discuss	 the	 past.	 With	 the
two	of	them	(more	even	than	with	Richard)	she	shared	her	past;	the	garden;
the	 trees;	 old	 Joseph	 Breitkopf	 singing	 Brahms	 without	 any	 voice;	 the
drawing-room	 wallpaper;	 the	 smell	 of	 the	 mats.	 A	 part	 of	 this	 Sally	 must
always	 be;	 Peter	 must	 always	 be.	 But	 she	 must	 leave	 them.	 There	 were	 the
Bradshaws,	 whom	 she	 disliked.	 She	 must	 go	 up	 to	 Lady	 Bradshaw	 (in	 grey
and	 silver,	 balancing	 like	 a	 sea-lion	 at	 the	 edge	 of	 its	 tank,	 barking	 for
invitations,	Duchesses,	the	typical	successful	man's	wife),	she	must	go	up	to
Lady	Bradshaw	and	say	.	.	.

But	Lady	Bradshaw	anticipated	her.

"We	are	shockingly	late,	dear	Mrs.	Dalloway,	we	hardly	dared	to	come	in,"	she
said.

And	Sir	William,	who	looked	very	distinguished,	with	his	grey	hair	and	blue
eyes,	said	yes;	they	had	not	been	able	to	resist	the	temptation.	He	was	talking
to	 Richard	 about	 that	 Bill	 probably,	 which	 they	 wanted	 to	 get	 through	 the
Commons.	 Why	 did	 the	 sight	 of	 him,	 talking	 to	 Richard,	 curl	 her	 up?	 He
looked	 what	 he	 was,	 a	 great	 doctor.	 A	 man	 absolutely	 at	 the	 head	 of	 his
profession,	very	powerful,	rather	worn.	For	think	what	cases	came	before	him-
-people	 in	 the	 uttermost	 depths	 of	 misery;	 people	 on	 the	 verge	 of	 insanity;
husbands	and	wives.	He	had	to	decide	questions	of	appalling	difficulty.	Yet--
what	she	felt	was,	one	wouldn't	like	Sir	William	to	see	one	unhappy.	No;	not
that	man.

"How	is	your	son	at	Eton?"	she	asked	Lady	Bradshaw.

He	had	just	missed	his	eleven,	said	Lady	Bradshaw,	because	of	the	mumps.
His	 father	 minded	 even	 more	 than	 he	 did,	 she	 thought	 "being,"	 she	 said,
"nothing	but	a	great	boy	himself."

Clarissa	looked	at	Sir	William,	talking	to	Richard.	He	did	not	look	like	a	boy--
not	in	the	least	like	a	boy.	She	had	once	gone	with	some	one	to	ask	his	advice.
He	had	been	perfectly	right;	extremely	sensible.	But	Heavens--what	a	relief	to
get	 out	 to	 the	 street	 again!	 There	 was	 some	 poor	 wretch	 sobbing,	 she
remembered,	in	the	waiting-room.	But	she	did	not	know	what	it	was--about	Sir

William;	what	exactly	she	disliked.	Only	Richard	agreed	with	her,	"didn't	like
his	 taste,	 didn't	 like	 his	 smell."	 But	 he	 was	 extraordinarily	 able.	 They	 were
talking	about	this	Bill.	Some	case,	Sir	William	was	mentioning,	lowering	his
voice.	It	had	its	bearing	upon	what	he	was	saying	about	the	deferred	effects	of
shell	shock.	There	must	be	some	provision	in	the	Bill.

Sinking	 her	 voice,	 drawing	 Mrs.	 Dalloway	 into	 the	 shelter	 of	 a	 common
femininity,	a	common	pride	in	the	illustrious	qualities	of	husbands	and	their
sad	tendency	to	overwork,	Lady	Bradshaw	(poor	goose--one	didn't	dislike	her)
murmured	how,	"just	as	we	were	starting,	my	husband	was	called	up	on	the
telephone,	a	very	sad	case.	A	young	man	(that	is	what	Sir	William	is	telling
Mr.	 Dalloway)	 had	 killed	 himself.	 He	 had	 been	 in	 the	 army."	 Oh!	 thought
Clarissa,	in	the	middle	of	my	party,	here's	death,	she	thought.

She	went	on,	into	the	little	room	where	the	Prime	Minister	had	gone	with	Lady
Bruton.	Perhaps	there	was	somebody	there.	But	there	was	nobody.	The	chairs
still	 kept	 the	 impress	 of	 the	 Prime	 Minister	 and	 Lady	 Bruton,	 she	 turned
deferentially,	 he	 sitting	 four-square,	 authoritatively.	 They	 had	 been	 talking
about	 India.	 There	 was	 nobody.	 The	 party's	 splendour	 fell	 to	 the	 floor,	 so
strange	it	was	to	come	in	alone	in	her	finery.

What	business	had	the	Bradshaws	to	talk	of	death	at	her	party?	A	young	man
had	killed	himself.	And	they	talked	of	it	at	her	party--the	Bradshaws,	talked	of
death.	He	had	killed	himself--but	how?	Always	her	body	went	through	it	first,
when	she	was	told,	suddenly,	of	an	accident;	her	dress	flamed,	her	body	burnt.
He	had	thrown	himself	from	a	window.	Up	had	flashed	the	ground;	through
him,	 blundering,	 bruising,	 went	 the	 rusty	 spikes.	 There	 he	 lay	 with	 a	 thud,
thud,	thud	in	his	brain,	and	then	a	suffocation	of	blackness.	So	she	saw	it.	But
why	had	he	done	it?	And	the	Bradshaws	talked	of	it	at	her	party!

She	had	once	thrown	a	shilling	into	the	Serpentine,	never	anything	more.	But
he	 had	 flung	 it	 away.	 They	 went	 on	 living	 (she	 would	 have	 to	 go	 back;	 the
rooms	were	still	crowded;	people	kept	on	coming).	They	(all	day	she	had	been
thinking	of	Bourton,	of	Peter,	of	Sally),	they	would	grow	old.	A	thing	there
was	that	mattered;	a	thing,	wreathed	about	with	chatter,	defaced,	obscured	in
her	 own	 life,	 let	 drop	 every	 day	 in	 corruption,	 lies,	 chatter.	 This	 he	 had
preserved.	Death	was	defiance.	Death	was	an	attempt	to	communicate;	people
feeling	 the	 impossibility	 of	 reaching	 the	 centre	 which,	 mystically,	 evaded
them;	 closeness	 drew	 apart;	 rapture	 faded,	 one	 was	 alone.	 There	 was	 an
embrace	in	death.

But	 this	 young	 man	 who	 had	 killed	 himself--had	 he	 plunged	 holding	 his
treasure?	"If	it	were	now	to	die,	'twere	now	to	be	most	happy,"	she	had	said	to
herself	once,	coming	down	in	white.

Or	there	were	the	poets	and	thinkers.	Suppose	he	had	had	that	passion,	and	had
gone	to	Sir	William	Bradshaw,	a	great	doctor	yet	to	her	obscurely	evil,	without
sex	 or	 lust,	 extremely	 polite	 to	 women,	 but	 capable	 of	 some	 indescribable
outrage--forcing	your	soul,	that	was	it--if	this	young	man	had	gone	to	him,	and
Sir	William	had	impressed	him,	like	that,	with	his	power,	might	he	not	then
have	 said	 (indeed	 she	 felt	 it	 now),	 Life	 is	 made	 intolerable;	 they	 make	 life
intolerable,	men	like	that?

Then	(she	had	felt	it	only	this	morning)	there	was	the	terror;	the	overwhelming
incapacity,	one's	parents	giving	it	into	one's	hands,	this	life,	to	be	lived	to	the
end,	to	be	walked	with	serenely;	there	was	in	the	depths	of	her	heart	an	awful
fear.	Even	now,	quite	often	if	Richard	had	not	been	there	reading	the	Times,	so
that	 she	 could	 crouch	 like	 a	 bird	 and	 gradually	 revive,	 send	 roaring	 up	 that
immeasurable	delight,	rubbing	stick	to	stick,	one	thing	with	another,	she	must
have	perished.	But	that	young	man	had	killed	himself.

Somehow	it	was	her	disaster--her	disgrace.	It	was	her	punishment	to	see	sink
and	disappear	here	a	man,	there	a	woman,	in	this	profound	darkness,	and	she
forced	to	stand	here	in	her	evening	dress.	She	had	schemed;	she	had	pilfered.
She	was	never	wholly	admirable.	She	had	wanted	success.	Lady	Bexborough
and	the	rest	of	it.	And	once	she	had	walked	on	the	terrace	at	Bourton.

It	was	due	to	Richard;	she	had	never	been	so	happy.	Nothing	could	be	slow
enough;	 nothing	 last	 too	 long.	 No	 pleasure	 could	 equal,	 she	 thought,
straightening	 the	 chairs,	 pushing	 in	 one	 book	 on	 the	 shelf,	 this	 having	 done
with	the	triumphs	of	youth,	lost	herself	in	the	process	of	living,	to	find	it,	with
a	shock	of	delight,	as	the	sun	rose,	as	the	day	sank.	Many	a	time	had	she	gone,
at	Bourton	when	they	were	all	talking,	to	look	at	the	sky;	or	seen	it	between
people's	shoulders	at	dinner;	seen	it	in	London	when	she	could	not	sleep.	She
walked	to	the	window.

It	held,	foolish	as	the	idea	was,	something	of	her	own	in	it,	this	country	sky,
this	sky	above	Westminster.	She	parted	the	curtains;	she	looked.	Oh,	but	how
surprising!--in	the	room	opposite	the	old	lady	stared	straight	at	her!	She	was
going	to	bed.	And	the	sky.	It	will	be	a	solemn	sky,	she	had	thought,	it	will	be	a
dusky	 sky,	 turning	 away	 its	 cheek	 in	 beauty.	 But	 there	 it	 was--ashen	 pale,
raced	over	quickly	by	tapering	vast	clouds.	It	was	new	to	her.	The	wind	must
have	risen.	She	was	going	to	bed,	in	the	room	opposite.	It	was	fascinating	to
watch	 her,	 moving	 about,	 that	 old	 lady,	 crossing	 the	 room,	 coming	 to	 the
window.	Could	she	see	her?	It	was	fascinating,	with	people	still	laughing	and
shouting	in	the	drawing-room,	to	watch	that	old	woman,	quite	quietly,	going	to
bed.	She	pulled	the	blind	now.	The	clock	began	striking.	The	young	man	had
killed	himself;	but	she	did	not	pity	him;	with	the	clock	striking	the	hour,	one,
two,	three,	she	did	not	pity	him,	with	all	this	going	on.	There!	the	old	lady	had

put	 out	 her	 light!	 the	 whole	 house	 was	 dark	 now	 with	 this	 going	 on,	 she
repeated,	and	the	words	came	to	her,	Fear	no	more	the	heat	of	the	sun.	She
must	 go	 back	 to	 them.	 But	 what	 an	 extraordinary	 night!	 She	 felt	 somehow
very	like	him--the	young	man	who	had	killed	himself.	She	felt	glad	that	he	had
done	it;	thrown	it	away.	The	clock	was	striking.	The	leaden	circles	dissolved
in	the	air.	He	made	her	feel	the	beauty;	made	her	feel	the	fun.	But	she	must	go
back.	 She	 must	 assemble.	 She	 must	 find	 Sally	 and	 Peter.	 And	 she	 came	 in
from	the	little	room.

"But	 where	 is	 Clarissa?"	 said	 Peter.	 He	 was	 sitting	 on	 the	 sofa	 with	 Sally.
(After	all	these	years	he	really	could	not	call	her	"Lady	Rosseter.")	"Where's
the	woman	gone	to?"	he	asked.	"Where's	Clarissa?"

Sally	supposed,	and	so	did	Peter	for	the	matter	of	that,	that	there	were	people
of	importance,	politicians,	whom	neither	of	them	knew	unless	by	sight	in	the
picture	papers,	whom	Clarissa	had	to	be	nice	to,	had	to	talk	to.	She	was	with
them.	Yet	there	was	Richard	Dalloway	not	in	the	Cabinet.	He	hadn't	been	a
success,	Sally	supposed?	For	herself,	she	scarcely	ever	read	the	papers.	She
sometimes	saw	his	name	mentioned.	But	then--well,	she	lived	a	very	solitary
life,	 in	 the	 wilds,	 Clarissa	 would	 say,	 among	 great	 merchants,	 great
manufacturers,	men,	after	all,	who	did	things.	She	had	done	things	too!

"I	have	five	sons!"	she	told	him.

Lord,	Lord,	what	a	change	had	come	over	her!	the	softness	of	motherhood;	its
egotism	 too.	 Last	 time	 they	 met,	 Peter	 remembered,	 had	 been	 among	 the
cauliflowers	 in	 the	 moonlight,	 the	 leaves	 "like	 rough	 bronze"	 she	 had	 said,
with	her	literary	turn;	and	she	had	picked	a	rose.	She	had	marched	him	up	and
down	 that	 awful	 night,	 after	 the	 scene	 by	 the	 fountain;	 he	 was	 to	 catch	 the
midnight	train.	Heavens,	he	had	wept!

That	was	his	old	trick,	opening	a	pocket-knife,	thought	Sally,	always	opening
and	shutting	a	knife	when	he	got	excited.	They	had	been	very,	very	intimate,
she	and	Peter	Walsh,	when	he	was	in	love	with	Clarissa,	and	there	was	that
dreadful,	 ridiculous	 scene	 over	 Richard	 Dalloway	 at	 lunch.	 She	 had	 called
Richard	 "Wickham."	 Why	 not	 call	 Richard	 "Wickham"?	 Clarissa	 had	 flared
up!	 and	 indeed	 they	 had	 never	 seen	 each	 other	 since,	 she	 and	 Clarissa,	 not
more	than	half	a	dozen	times	perhaps	in	the	last	ten	years.	And	Peter	Walsh
had	gone	off	to	India,	and	she	had	heard	vaguely	that	he	had	made	an	unhappy
marriage,	and	she	didn't	know	whether	he	had	any	children,	and	she	couldn't
ask	him,	for	he	had	changed.	He	was	rather	shrivelled-looking,	but	kinder,	she
felt,	and	she	had	a	real	affection	for	him,	for	he	was	connected	with	her	youth,
and	she	still	had	a	little	Emily	Brontë	he	had	given	her,	and	he	was	to	write,
surely?	In	those	days	he	was	to	write.

"Have	you	written?"	she	asked	him,	spreading	her	hand,	her	firm	and	shapely
hand,	on	her	knee	in	a	way	he	recalled.

"Not	a	word!"	said	Peter	Walsh,	and	she	laughed.

She	 was	 still	 attractive,	 still	 a	 personage,	 Sally	 Seton.	 But	 who	 was	 this
Rosseter?	He	wore	two	camellias	on	his	wedding	day--that	was	all	Peter	knew
of	 him.	 "They	 have	 myriads	 of	 servants,	 miles	 of	 conservatories,"	 Clarissa
wrote;	something	like	that.	Sally	owned	it	with	a	shout	of	laughter.

"Yes,	I	have	ten	thousand	a	year"--whether	before	the	tax	was	paid	or	after,	she
couldn't	remember,	for	her	husband,	"whom	you	must	meet,"	she	said,	"whom
you	would	like,"	she	said,	did	all	that	for	her.

And	Sally	used	to	be	in	rags	and	tatters.	She	had	pawned	her	grandmother's
ring	 which	 Marie	 Antoinette	 had	 given	 her	 great-grandfather	 to	 come	 to
Bourton.

Oh	yes,	Sally	remembered;	she	had	it	still,	a	ruby	ring	which	Marie	Antoinette
had	given	her	great-grandfather.	She	never	had	a	penny	to	her	name	in	those
days,	and	going	to	Bourton	always	meant	some	frightful	pinch.	But	going	to
Bourton	 had	 meant	 so	 much	 to	 her--had	 kept	 her	 sane,	 she	 believed,	 so
unhappy	had	she	been	at	home.	But	that	was	all	a	thing	of	the	past--all	over
now,	she	said.	And	Mr.	Parry	was	dead;	and	Miss	Parry	was	still	alive.	Never
had	he	had	such	a	shock	in	his	life!	said	Peter.	He	had	been	quite	certain	she
was	 dead.	 And	 the	 marriage	 had	 been,	 Sally	 supposed,	 a	 success?	 And	 that
very	handsome,	very	self-possessed	young	woman	was	Elizabeth,	over	there,
by	the	curtains,	in	red.

(She	was	like	a	poplar,	she	was	like	a	river,	she	was	like	a	hyacinth,	Willie
Titcomb	was	thinking.	Oh	how	much	nicer	to	be	in	the	country	and	do	what
she	liked!	She	could	hear	her	poor	dog	howling,	Elizabeth	was	certain.)	She
was	not	a	bit	like	Clarissa,	Peter	Walsh	said.

"Oh,	Clarissa!"	said	Sally.

What	Sally	felt	was	simply	this.	She	had	owed	Clarissa	an	enormous	amount.
They	had	been	friends,	not	acquaintances,	friends,	and	she	still	saw	Clarissa
all	in	white	going	about	the	house	with	her	hands	full	of	flowers--to	this	day
tobacco	 plants	 made	 her	 think	 of	 Bourton.	 But--did	 Peter	 understand?--she
lacked	something.	Lacked	what	was	it?	She	had	charm;	she	had	extraordinary
charm.	But	to	be	frank	(and	she	felt	that	Peter	was	an	old	friend,	a	real	friend--
did	absence	matter?	did	distance	matter?	She	had	often	wanted	to	write	to	him,
but	 torn	 it	 up,	 yet	 felt	 he	 understood,	 for	 people	 understand	 without	 things
being	 said,	 as	 one	 realises	 growing	 old,	 and	 old	 she	 was,	 had	 been	 that

afternoon	 to	 see	 her	 sons	 at	 Eton,	 where	 they	 had	 the	 mumps),	 to	 be	 quite
frank	 then,	 how	 could	 Clarissa	 have	 done	 it?--married	 Richard	 Dalloway?	 a
sportsman,	a	man	who	cared	only	for	dogs.	Literally,	when	he	came	into	the
room	he	smelt	of	the	stables.	And	then	all	this?	She	waved	her	hand.

Hugh	Whitbread	it	was,	strolling	past	in	his	white	waistcoat,	dim,	fat,	blind,
past	everything	he	looked,	except	self-esteem	and	comfort.

"He's	not	going	to	recognise	us,"	said	Sally,	and	really	she	hadn't	the	courage--
so	that	was	Hugh!	the	admirable	Hugh!

"And	what	does	he	do?"	she	asked	Peter.

He	 blacked	 the	 King's	 boots	 or	 counted	 bottles	 at	 Windsor,	 Peter	 told	 her.
Peter	kept	his	sharp	tongue	still!	But	Sally	must	be	frank,	Peter	said.	That	kiss
now,	Hugh's.

On	 the	 lips,	 she	 assured	 him,	 in	 the	 smoking-room	 one	 evening.	 She	 went
straight	 to	 Clarissa	 in	 a	 rage.	 Hugh	 didn't	 do	 such	 things!	 Clarissa	 said,	 the
admirable	Hugh!	Hugh's	socks	were	without	exception	the	most	beautiful	she
had	ever	seen--and	now	his	evening	dress.	Perfect!	And	had	he	children?

"Everybody	in	the	room	has	six	sons	at	Eton,"	Peter	told	her,	except	himself.
He,	thank	God,	had	none.	No	sons,	no	daughters,	no	wife.	Well,	he	didn't	seem
to	mind,	said	Sally.	He	looked	younger,	she	thought,	than	any	of	them.

But	it	had	been	a	silly	thing	to	do,	in	many	ways,	Peter	said,	to	marry	like	that;
"a	perfect	goose	she	was,"	he	said,	but,	he	said,	"we	had	a	splendid	time	of	it,"
but	how	could	that	be?	Sally	wondered;	what	did	he	mean?	and	how	odd	it
was	to	know	him	and	yet	not	know	a	single	thing	that	had	happened	to	him.
And	did	he	say	it	out	of	pride?	Very	likely,	for	after	all	it	must	be	galling	for
him	(though	he	was	an	oddity,	a	sort	of	sprite,	not	at	all	an	ordinary	man),	it
must	be	lonely	at	his	age	to	have	no	home,	nowhere	to	go	to.	But	he	must	stay
with	them	for	weeks	and	weeks.	Of	course	he	would;	he	would	love	to	stay
with	them,	and	that	was	how	it	came	out.	All	these	years	the	Dalloways	had
never	 been	 once.	 Time	 after	 time	 they	 had	 asked	 them.	 Clarissa	 (for	 it	 was
Clarissa	 of	 course)	 would	 not	 come.	 For,	 said	 Sally,	 Clarissa	 was	 at	 heart	 a
snob--one	had	to	admit	it,	a	snob.	And	it	was	that	that	was	between	them,	she
was	 convinced.	 Clarissa	 thought	 she	 had	 married	 beneath	 her,	 her	 husband
being--she	 was	 proud	 of	 it--a	 miner's	 son.	 Every	 penny	 they	 had	 he	 had
earned.	As	a	little	boy	(her	voice	trembled)	he	had	carried	great	sacks.

(And	so	she	would	go	on,	Peter	felt,	hour	after	hour;	the	miner's	son;	people
thought	she	had	married	beneath	her;	her	five	sons;	and	what	was	the	other
thing--plants,	 hydrangeas,	 syringas,	 very,	 very	 rare	 hibiscus	 lilies	 that	 never

grow	 north	 of	 the	 Suez	 Canal,	 but	 she,	 with	 one	 gardener	 in	 a	 suburb	 near
Manchester,	 had	 beds	 of	 them,	 positively	 beds!	 Now	 all	 that	 Clarissa	 had
escaped,	unmaternal	as	she	was.)

A	 snob	 was	 she?	 Yes,	 in	 many	 ways.	 Where	 was	 she,	 all	 this	 time?	 It	 was
getting	late.

"Yet,"	 said	 Sally,	 "when	 I	 heard	 Clarissa	 was	 giving	 a	 party,	 I	 felt	 I
couldn't	 not	 come--must	 see	 her	 again	 (and	 I'm	 staying	 in	 Victoria	 Street,
practically	 next	 door).	 So	 I	 just	 came	 without	 an	 invitation.	 But,"	 she
whispered,	"tell	me,	do.	Who	is	this?"

It	was	Mrs.	Hilbery,	looking	for	the	door.	For	how	late	it	was	getting!	And,	she
murmured,	as	the	night	grew	later,	as	people	went,	one	found	old	friends;	quiet
nooks	 and	 corners;	 and	 the	 loveliest	 views.	 Did	 they	 know,	 she	 asked,	 that
they	were	surrounded	by	an	enchanted	garden?	Lights	and	trees	and	wonderful
gleaming	 lakes	 and	 the	 sky.	 Just	 a	 few	 fairy	 lamps,	 Clarissa	 Dalloway	 had
said,	in	the	back	garden!	But	she	was	a	magician!	It	was	a	park.	.	.	.	And	she
didn't	 know	 their	 names,	 but	 friends	 she	 knew	 they	 were,	 friends	 without
names,	songs	without	words,	always	the	best.	But	there	were	so	many	doors,
such	unexpected	places,	she	could	not	find	her	way.

"Old	Mrs.	Hilbery,"	said	Peter;	but	who	was	that?	that	lady	standing	by	the
curtain	 all	 the	 evening,	 without	 speaking?	 He	 knew	 her	 face;	 connected	 her
with	Bourton.	Surely	she	used	to	cut	up	underclothes	at	the	large	table	in	the
window?	Davidson,	was	that	her	name?

"Oh,	that	is	Ellie	Henderson,"	said	Sally.	Clarissa	was	really	very	hard	on	her.
She	was	a	cousin,	very	poor.	Clarissa	was	hard	on	people.

She	was	rather,	said	Peter.	Yet,	said	Sally,	in	her	emotional	way,	with	a	rush	of
that	enthusiasm	which	Peter	used	to	love	her	for,	yet	dreaded	a	little	now,	so
effusive	 she	 might	 become--how	 generous	 to	 her	 friends	 Clarissa	 was!	 and
what	a	rare	quality	one	found	it,	and	how	sometimes	at	night	or	on	Christmas
Day,	 when	 she	 counted	 up	 her	 blessings,	 she	 put	 that	 friendship	 first.	 They
were	young;	that	was	it.	Clarissa	was	pure-hearted;	that	was	it.	Peter	would
think	her	sentimental.	So	she	was.	For	she	had	come	to	feel	that	it	was	the	only
thing	worth	saying--what	one	felt.	Cleverness	was	silly.	One	must	say	simply
what	one	felt.

"But	I	do	not	know,"	said	Peter	Walsh,	"what	I	feel."

Poor	Peter,	thought	Sally.	Why	did	not	Clarissa	come	and	talk	to	them?	That
was	what	he	was	longing	for.	She	knew	it.	All	the	time	he	was	thinking	only	of
Clarissa,	and	was	fidgeting	with	his	knife.

He	had	not	found	life	simple,	Peter	said.	His	relations	with	Clarissa	had	not
been	simple.	It	had	spoilt	his	life,	he	said.	(They	had	been	so	intimate--he	and
Sally	Seton,	it	was	absurd	not	to	say	it.)	One	could	not	be	in	love	twice,	he
said.	And	what	could	she	say?	Still,	it	is	better	to	have	loved	(but	he	would
think	her	sentimental--he	used	to	be	so	sharp).	He	must	come	and	stay	with
them	in	Manchester.	That	is	all	very	true,	he	said.	All	very	true.	He	would	love
to	 come	 and	 stay	 with	 them,	 directly	 he	 had	 done	 what	 he	 had	 to	 do	 in
London.

And	 Clarissa	 had	 cared	 for	 him	 more	 than	 she	 had	 ever	 cared	 for	 Richard.
Sally	was	positive	of	that.

"No,	no,	no!"	said	Peter	(Sally	should	not	have	said	that--she	went	too	far).
That	good	fellow--there	he	was	at	the	end	of	the	room,	holding	forth,	the	same
as	 ever,	 dear	 old	 Richard.	 Who	 was	 he	 talking	 to?	 Sally	 asked,	 that	 very
distinguished-looking	 man?	 Living	 in	 the	 wilds	 as	 she	 did,	 she	 had	 an
insatiable	curiosity	to	know	who	people	were.	But	Peter	did	not	know.	He	did
not	like	his	looks,	he	said,	probably	a	Cabinet	Minister.	Of	them	all,	Richard
seemed	to	him	the	best,	he	said--the	most	disinterested.

"But	what	has	he	done?"	Sally	asked.	Public	work,	she	supposed.	And	were
they	happy	together?	Sally	asked	(she	herself	was	extremely	happy);	for,	she
admitted,	she	knew	nothing	about	them,	only	jumped	to	conclusions,	as	one
does,	for	what	can	one	know	even	of	the	people	one	lives	with	every	day?	she
asked.	Are	we	not	all	prisoners?	She	had	read	a	wonderful	play	about	a	man
who	scratched	on	the	wall	of	his	cell,	and	she	had	felt	that	was	true	of	life--one
scratched	 on	 the	 wall.	 Despairing	 of	 human	 relationships	 (people	 were	 so
difficult),	 she	 often	 went	 into	 her	 garden	 and	 got	 from	 her	 flowers	 a	 peace
which	men	and	women	never	gave	her.	But	no;	he	did	not	like	cabbages;	he
preferred	human	beings,	Peter	said.	Indeed,	the	young	are	beautiful,	Sally	said,
watching	Elizabeth	cross	the	room.	How	unlike	Clarissa	at	her	age!	Could	he
make	anything	of	her?	She	would	not	open	her	lips.	Not	much,	not	yet,	Peter
admitted.	She	was	like	a	lily,	Sally	said,	a	lily	by	the	side	of	a	pool.	But	Peter
did	not	agree	that	we	know	nothing.	We	know	everything,	he	said;	at	least	he
did.

But	these	two,	Sally	whispered,	these	two	coming	now	(and	really	she	must
go,	 if	 Clarissa	 did	 not	 come	 soon),	 this	 distinguished-looking	 man	 and	 his
rather	common-looking	wife	who	had	been	talking	to	Richard--what	could	one
know	about	people	like	that?

"That	 they're	 damnable	 humbugs,"	 said	 Peter,	 looking	 at	 them	 casually.	 He
made	Sally	laugh.

But	Sir	William	Bradshaw	stopped	at	the	door	to	look	at	a	picture.	He	looked
in	 the	 corner	 for	 the	 engraver's	 name.	 His	 wife	 looked	 too.	 Sir	 William
Bradshaw	was	so	interested	in	art.

When	one	was	young,	said	Peter,	one	was	too	much	excited	to	know	people.
Now	that	one	was	old,	fifty-two	to	be	precise	(Sally	was	fifty-five,	in	body,
she	said,	but	her	heart	was	like	a	girl's	of	twenty);	now	that	one	was	mature
then,	said	Peter,	one	could	watch,	one	could	understand,	and	one	did	not	lose
the	power	of	feeling,	he	said.	No,	that	is	true,	said	Sally.	She	felt	more	deeply,
more	 passionately,	 every	 year.	 It	 increased,	 he	 said,	 alas,	 perhaps,	 but	 one
should	be	glad	of	it--it	went	on	increasing	in	his	experience.	There	was	some
one	 in	 India.	 He	 would	 like	 to	 tell	 Sally	 about	 her.	 He	 would	 like	 Sally	 to
know	her.	She	was	married,	he	said.	She	had	two	small	children.	They	must	all
come	to	Manchester,	said	Sally--he	must	promise	before	they	left.

There's	Elizabeth,	he	said,	she	feels	not	half	what	we	feel,	not	yet.	But,	said
Sally,	watching	Elizabeth	go	to	her	father,	one	can	see	they	are	devoted	to	each
other.	She	could	feel	it	by	the	way	Elizabeth	went	to	her	father.

For	her	father	had	been	looking	at	her,	as	he	stood	talking	to	the	Bradshaws,
and	 he	 had	 thought	 to	 himself,	 Who	 is	 that	 lovely	 girl?	 And	 suddenly	 he
realised	that	it	was	his	Elizabeth,	and	he	had	not	recognised	her,	she	looked	so
lovely	in	her	pink	frock!	Elizabeth	had	felt	him	looking	at	her	as	she	talked	to
Willie	Titcomb.	So	she	went	to	him	and	they	stood	together,	now	that	the	party
was	almost	over,	looking	at	the	people	going,	and	the	rooms	getting	emptier
and	 emptier,	 with	 things	 scattered	 on	 the	 floor.	 Even	 Ellie	 Henderson	 was
going,	nearly	last	of	all,	though	no	one	had	spoken	to	her,	but	she	had	wanted
to	see	everything,	to	tell	Edith.	And	Richard	and	Elizabeth	were	rather	glad	it
was	over,	but	Richard	was	proud	of	his	daughter.	And	he	had	not	meant	to	tell
her,	but	he	could	not	help	telling	her.	He	had	looked	at	her,	he	said,	and	he	had
wondered,	Who	is	that	lovely	girl?	and	it	was	his	daughter!	That	did	make	her
happy.	But	her	poor	dog	was	howling.

"Richard	has	improved.	You	are	right,"	said	Sally.	"I	shall	go	and	talk	to	him.	I
shall	say	goodnight.	What	does	the	brain	matter,"	said	Lady	Rosseter,	getting
up,	"compared	with	the	heart?"

"I	will	come,"	said	Peter,	but	he	sat	on	for	a	moment.	What	is	this	terror?	what
is	 this	 ecstasy?	 he	 thought	 to	 himself.	 What	 is	 it	 that	 fills	 me	 with
extraordinary	excitement?

It	is	Clarissa,	he	said.

For	there	she	was.

THE	END

	

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