Mrs Dalloway (Part VIII/VIII), by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941).
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Partie VIII
Lucy surgit en dévalant les escaliers, se précipita au salon pour lisser une nappe, ranger une chaise, s'arrêter un instant et songer que quiconque entrerait dans la pièce penserait que tout était impeccable, brillant et bien entretenu en voyant l'argenterie rutilante, les chenets en laiton, les sièges fraîchement retapissés et les rideaux de chintz jaune ; elle évalua chaque objet puis entendit la rumeur des voix : les convives sortaient de table et elle devait filer !
Le Premier ministre allait venir, c'est ce qu'elle les avait entendus annoncer dans la salle à manger, dit Agnès en entrant avec un plateau de verres. Est-ce que cela avait vraiment de l'importance, est-ce que cela faisait une différence, un Premier ministre de plus ou de moins ? À cette heure tardive, cela importait peu à Mrs Walker, qui s'affairait parmi les assiettes, les casseroles, les passoires, les poêles à frire, le poulet en gelée, les sorbetières, les croûtons, les citrons, les soupières et les moules à pudding, toutes choses qui, bien qu'on frottât dur dans l'arrière-cuisine, semblaient s'amasser sur ses épaules, sur la table de la cuisine, sur les chaises... tandis que le feu rugissait et grondait, que les lumières électriques brillaient et que le souper devait encore être servi. Tout ce qu'elle ressentait, c'était qu'un Premier ministre de plus ou de moins ne changerait absolument rien pour Mrs Walker.
Les dames montaient déjà à l'étage, dit Lucy. En effet, les dames montèrent, une par une, Mrs Dalloway la dernière, envoyant comme presque toujours ce message à la cuisine : « Mes félicitations à Mrs Walker », c'était tout ce soir-là. Le lendemain matin, on passerait en revue les plats : la soupe, le saumon — le saumon ! Mrs Walker le savait bien, n'était jamais assez cuit. Elle était toujours soucieuse à propos du pudding et laissait Jenny s'occuper du poisson, ce qui entraînait inévitablement une cuisson qui laissait à désirer. Mais, selon Lucy, une dame aux cheveux blonds et aux bijoux en argent avait demandé si l'entrée était vraiment faite maison. Mais c'était le saumon qui contrariait Mrs Walker alors qu'elle manipulait les assiettes, ouvrant et fermant les clapets de sa cuisinière ; des éclats de rire résonnaient depuis la salle à manger, une voix se fit entendre, suivie d'un nouvel éclat de rire — les messieurs semblaient visiblement s'amuser après le départ des dames. Le tokay, dit Lucy en accourant. Mr Dalloway avait fait venir le tokay des caves de l'empereur, le tokay impérial.
On le fit passer par la cuisine. Lucy rapporta, par-dessus son épaule, que Miss Elizabeth était ravissante et qu'elle ne pouvait détacher ses yeux d'elle, dans sa robe rose, portant le collier que Mr Dalloway lui avait offert. Jenny doit se souvenir du chien, le fox-terrier de Miss Élisabeth qui, puisqu'il mord, est enfermé et veut peut-être quelque chose, d'après Élisabeth. Jenny ne doit pas oublier le chien. Mais Jenny n'allait pas monter à l'étage avec tous ces invités. Il y avait déjà une automobile à la porte ! La cloche retentit... et les messieurs étaient encore dans la salle à manger à boire du tokay !
Voilà, ils montaient l'escalier ; c'étaient les premiers qui arrivaient et maintenant ils se suivraient les uns derrière les autres, c'est pourquoi Mrs Parkinson (embauchée pour les réceptions) laissa la porte entrebâillée et le vestibule fut rapidement envahi de gentlemans qui attendaient, lissant leurs cheveux, pendant que les dames ôtaient leur manteau pour le laisser dans la pièce qui longeait le couloir et servait de vestiaire ; tandis que Mrs Barnet les aidait, la vieille Ellen Barnet qui avait été au service de la famille pendant quarante ans et venait chaque été pour prêter main forte à ces dames, se souvenait des mères quand elles étaient jeunes filles et, bien que tout à fait discrète, serrait des mains en prononçant « milady » très respectueusement mais avec humour en regardant ces jeunes dames, et aida même, avec beaucoup de tact, Lady Lovejoy qui avait un petit problème avec son corset. Et Lady Lovejoy, comme Miss Alice, ressentirent comme un petit privilège qui leur était octroyé lorsque Mrs Barnet leur donna une brosse et un peigne parce qu'elles la connaissaient de longue date... « trente ans milady, » murmura Mrs Barnett. — Les jeunes dames ne mettaient pas de rouge aux lèvres autrefois lorsqu'elles séjournaient à Bourton, dit Lady Lovejoy. — Et Miss Alice n'avait pas besoin de rouge, répondit Mrs Barnet en la regardant affectueusement. Installée dans le vestiaire, Mrs Barnet lissait soigneusement les fourrures, défroissait les châles espagnols, arrangeait la coiffeuse, tout en sachant très bien, malgré les étoffes et les broderies, quelles dames étaient aimables et lesquelles ne l'étaient pas. « Cette bonne chère âme », dit Lady Lovejoy en montant les escaliers, en parlant de l'ancienne nourrice de Clarissa.
Puis Lady Lovejoy se raidit. — Lady Lovejoy et sa fille, annonça-t-elle à Mr Wilkins (engagé pour les réceptions). Il avait des manières admirables, s'inclinant et se redressant, s'inclinant encore et se redressant, tout en annonçant avec une cérémonie parfaite : — Lady Lovejoy et Miss... ... ... Sir John et Lady Needham... ... ... Miss Weld... ... ... Mr Walsh. Ses manières étaient admirables ; sa vie familiale devait être irréprochable, sauf qu'il semblait impossible qu'un être aux lèvres verdâtres et aux joues rasées ait pu se fourvoyer dans le pandémonium que représentent les enfants.
— Quel plaisir de vous voir ! susurra Clarissa. Elle disait cela à tout le monde. Quel plaisir de vous voir ! Sa fébrilité atteignait son paroxysme : hyperémotive et hypocrite. C'était une grave erreur d'être venu. Peter Walsh pensait qu'il aurait dû rester chez lui et lire son livre ; il aurait dû aller au music-hall ; ou il aurait dû rester chez lui, car il ne connaissait personne ici.
Mon Dieu, cela allait forcément être un désastre, un désastre total. Clarissa le sentait au plus profond d'elle-même tandis que le pauvre vieux Lord Lexham se tenait devant elle, présentant ses excuses pour son épouse qui avait attrapé un rhume lors de la garden-party au palais de Buckingham. Du coin de l'œil, elle voyait Peter qui la jugeait, là, dans un recoin. Pourquoi, après tout, faisait-elle ces choses ? Pourquoi rechercher les sommets et vouloir plonger dans les flammes ? Que les flammes la consument alors ! Puisse-t-elle se réduire en cendres ! Il valait mieux n'importe quoi, il valait mieux paraître incandescente devant la terre entière plutôt que se consumer et dépérir comme une Ellie Handerson ! Il était invraisemblable que la seule présence de Peter, assis dans un coin, la mît dans un état pareil. Il lui permettait de se voir telle qu'elle était ; en pire. C'était stupide. Mais pourquoi était-il venu alors, dans le seul but de la critiquer ? Pourquoi toujours prendre et ne jamais donner ? Pourquoi ne pas faire état de sa petite opinion personnelle ? Là, il s'éloignait et elle devait lui parler. Mais elle n'aurait pas cette chance. La vie était ainsi... humiliation, renonciation. Ce que Lord Lexham voulait dire c'était que son épouse ne tenait pas à arborer ses fourrures lors de la garden-party parce que « ma chère, vous, les dames, vous êtes toutes semblables »... Lady Lexham avait au moins soixante-quinze ans ! C'était charmant de voir à quel point ce vieux couple se choyait l'un l'autre. Elle aimait beaucoup le vieux Lord Lexham. Elle se souciait vraiment de sa réception, et cela la mettait mal à l'aise de réaliser que tout allait de travers et faisait flop. N'importe quoi, une explosion, une horreur, tout valait mieux que ces gens qui déambulaient comme des âmes perdues, ou se serraient dans un coin, comme Ellie Henderson, sans même se donner la peine de rester debout.
Doucement, le rideau jaune avec tous les oiseaux de paradis se soulevait ; on aurait dit qu'un battement d'ailes faisait irruption dans la pièce, puis ressortait aussitôt, avant d'être aspiré à nouveau. (Car la fenêtre était ouverte.) Ellie Henderson se demandait s’il y avait des courants d’air. Elle était sujette aux refroidissements. Mais peu lui importait qu'elle fût enrhumée ; ce qui la souciait, c'étaient les filles aux épaules nues ; son vieux père – invalide et ancien vicaire de Bourton – lui avait appris à penser aux autres. Il n'était plus là désormais, et ses refroidissements ne lui descendaient jamais sur la poitrine, jamais. C'était aux jeunes filles qu'elle pensait, à celles qui avaient les épaules nues, elle qui s'était toujours montrée frêle, avec ses cheveux fins et son profil anguleux ; même si, passée la cinquantaine, un certain éclat commençait à se révéler, quelque chose de raffiné par des années d’abnégation, mais obscurci encore par sa gentillesse excessive et sa peur panique, que ses seules trois cents livres de rente et son incapacité à gagner le moindre sou alimentaient ; cela la complexait et, au fil des ans, la rendait de moins en moins à l’aise parmi les gens élégants qui, en saison, reproduisaient ces gestes tous les soirs, se contentant de dire à leurs femmes de chambre « Je porterai ci ou ça », alors qu'elle, Ellie Henderson, avait dû en toute hâte courir acheter une demi-douzaine de fleurs roses bon marché, puis avait jeté un châle sur sa vieille robe noire. Car son invitation à la fête de Clarissa était arrivée à la dernière minute. Elle n'en était pas très contente. Elle avait un peu l'impression que Clarissa n'avait pas prévu de l'inviter cette année.
Pourquoi devrait-elle le faire ? Il n'y avait aucune raison particulière, sinon qu'elles se connaissaient depuis toujours. En fait, elles étaient cousines. Mais naturellement, elles s'étaient quelque peu éloignées l'une de l'autre, Clarissa étant très courtisée. Pour elle, aller à une réception était un événement. Ne serait-ce que voir toutes ces belles tenues était un vrai plaisir. Là, n’était-ce pas Elizabeth, qui avait grandi, avec ses cheveux coiffés à la mode et sa robe rose ? Elle ne pouvait pourtant pas avoir plus de dix-sept ans. Elle était vraiment très belle. Mais les jeunes filles, lorsqu'elles sortaient pour la première fois dans le monde, ne semblaient plus s'habiller en blanc comme autrefois. (Elle devait se souvenir de chaque chose pour tout répéter à Édith.) Ces demoiselles portaient des robes droites, très moulantes, dont la longueur s'arrêtait bien au-dessus des chevilles. Elle trouva que ce n'était pas convenable.
Donc, avec sa mauvaise vue, Ellie Henderson avait tendance à se pencher en avant, et ce n'était pas tant qu'elle se souciât de ne parler à personne (elle ne connaissait guère les invités), car elle trouvait bien plus intéressant de regarder tous ces gens, probablement des politiciens, des amis de Richard ; mais ce fut Richard lui-même qui réalisa qu'il ne pouvait laisser cette malheureuse seule dans un coin toute la soirée.
— Eh bien, Ellie, comment vous portez-vous ? demanda-t-il d'un ton affable, ce à quoi Ellie Henderson mal à l'aise, rougissante, pensant qu'il était très aimable de venir lui parler, répondit que bien des gens étaient réellement plus éprouvés par la chaleur que par le froid.
— Oui, certes, dit Richard Dalloway. C'est vrai.
Mais que dire de plus ?
— Hello, Richard, s'écria quelqu'un qui l'entraîna par le coude, et, Dieu soit loué, c'était ce vieux Peter, ce bon vieux Peter. Il était enchanté de le voir... tellement heureux de le voir ! Il n'avait pas changé du tout. Et ils partirent tous deux, traversant la pièce, se donnant de petites tapes amicales, comme s'ils ne s'étaient pas vus depuis longtemps, pensa Ellie Henderson en les regardant s'éloigner, certaine de connaître le visage de cet homme. Un homme de grande taille, d'âge moyen, aux yeux plutôt fins, sombres, portant des lunettes, ressemblant à John Burrows. Edith saurait sûrement de qui il s'agissait.
Le rideau avec son vol d'oiseaux de paradis se gonfla de nouveau. Et Clarissa vit... elle vit Ralph Lyon le rabattre d'un revers de main et continuer à parler. Ainsi la fête n'était pas un échec après tout ! tout allait bien se passer... sa fête ! C'était commencé. Cela prenait forme. Mais c'était fragile encore. Pour l'instant, il fallait qu'elle restât là. Un flot de gens arrivait.
Le colonel Garrod et madame... ... ... Mr Hugh Whitebread... ... ... Mr Bowley... ... ... Mrs Hilberry... ... ... Lady Mary Maddox... ... ... Mr Quin... ... ... entonnait Wilkin. Elle échangea quelques mots avec chacun, puis les invités continuèrent leur chemin et pénétrèrent dans les salons, ancrés dans quelque chose de concret désormais, et non plus dans le néant, depuis que Ralph Lyon avait rabattu le rideau.
Et pourtant, pour elle, c'était un trop gros effort. Elle ne s'amusait pas. C'était trop pénible d'être... juste un quidam, planté là ; n'importe qui pouvait le faire. Cependant elle avait un peu d'admiration pour le quidam en question et, de toute manière, elle savait qu'elle avait fait en sorte que cela se passât de cette façon et signalât une étape, cette fonction qu'elle avait fait sienne, car, assez étrangement, elle avait tout à fait oublié à quoi elle ressemblait et se sentait comme un poteau indicateur en haut des escaliers. Chaque fois qu'elle recevait, elle avait ce sentiment de ne plus être elle-même, que chacun était irréel d'un côté et beaucoup plus réel d'un autre. Elle pensait que cela venait en partie de leurs vêtements, en partie du fait qu'ils étaient hors de leur routine habituelle, et en partie de l'environnement ; il était possible de dire des choses qu'on ne pouvait pas dire autrement, des choses qui demandaient un effort ; cela permettait d'aller beaucoup plus loin. Mais pas pour elle ; pas encore, en tout cas.
— Quel plaisir de vous voir ! disait-elle. Cher sir Harry ! Il connaissait tout le monde.
Ce qui était étrange, c’était ce sentiment en les voyant gravir les escaliers les uns après les autres : Mrs Mount et Celia, Herbert Ainsty, Mrs Dakers... oh, et même Lady Bruton !
— C'est vraiment gentil de votre part d'être venue ! dit-elle, et elle le pensait vraiment... c'était étrange d'être debout là, de les sentir aller et venir, certains assez vieux, d'autres... ... ...
Quel nom ? Lady Rosseter ? Mais qui diable était lady Rosseter ?
— Clarissa ! Cette voix ! C'était Sally Seton ! Sally Seton ! après toutes ces années ! Elle réapparaissait à travers un brouillard. Elle n'avait pas cet air-là, Sally Seton, lorsque Clarissa avait saisi la bouilloire... alors l'imaginer maintenant, ici, sous ce toit, sous ce toit ! Non, pas cet air-là !
Précipités, troublés, enjoués, les mots se bousculaient dans sa bouche : — Passant par Londres, entendu dire par Clara Haydon ; quelle chance de vous voir ! Aussi, j'ai pris sur moi de venir... sans invitation... ... ... ...
On pouvait très sereinement reposer la bouilloire. Sa beauté s'était fanée. Cependant, c'était incroyable de la revoir, plus âgée, plus joyeuse, moins charmante. Elles s'embrassèrent sur les deux joues devant la porte du vestiaire puis Clarissa se retourna, une main de Sally dans les siennes et vit ses salons remplis de monde, entendit les éclats de voix et remarqua les chandeliers, les rideaux gonflés par les courants d'air et les roses que Richard lui avait offertes.
— J'ai cinq garçons vigoureux, dit Sally.
Elle avait un égoïsme des plus francs, le désir le plus ouvert d'être constamment celle à qui l'on pense en premier, et Clarissa l'aimait pour être restée ainsi. — Je ne peux y croire ! s'écria-t-elle, surexcitée de plaisir à l'idée du passé.
Mais hélas, Wilkins... Wilkins la réclamait. D'une voix pleine d'autorité, comme si toute la compagnie avait besoin d'être admonestée et l'hôtesse sauvée de sa frivolité, il prononça un nom. — Le Premier ministre, dit Peter Walsh.
Le Premier ministre ? Vraiment ? Elie Henderson était émerveillée. Voilà quelque chose à raconter à Edith.
On ne pouvait pas se moquer de lui. Il semblait si ordinaire. Vous le trouveriez derrière un comptoir que vous lui achèteriez des biscuits... le pauvre petit bonhomme, tout engoncé dans ses galons dorés. Pour être honnête, quand il fit le tour des salons, d'abord avec Clarissa, puis accompagné de Richard, il s'en sortit très bien. Il essayait de se faire passer pour quelqu'un. C'était amusant à voir. Personne ne le regardait. Ils continuaient à bavarder, mais il était clair comme le jour qu'au fond d'eux-mêmes, ils ressentaient au passage de cet homme majestueux, ce symbole de tout ce qu'ils représentaient : la société anglaise. La vieille lady Bruton, toujours élégante et imposante dans sa robe à dentelles, se fraya un chemin à travers la foule ; elle se retira avec lui dans une petite pièce aussitôt surveillée et gardée, tandis qu’une vague d’agitation et de murmures parcourait l’assemblée : le Premier ministre !
« Seigneur, Seigneur, le snobisme des Anglais ! » pensait Peter walsh, debout dans un coin. Comme ils aiment porter de la dentelle dorée et rendre des hommages ! Là ! Ce doit être — bon sang, c'est bien lui — Hugh Whitbread furetant dans la cour des grands, un peu plus gros, un peu plus pâle, l'admirable Hugh !
Il avait toujours l'air d'être en mission, pensa Peter, un type privilégié mais mystérieux, gardant ses secrets et prêt à mourir pour les défendre, bien qu'il eût seulement en sa possession quelques ragots glanés auprès d'un valet de pied de la Cour et qui seraient demain dans tous les journaux. Tels étaient ses joujoux, ses babioles avec lesquels il s'était amusé jusqu'à un âge avancé, à la limite de la vieillesse, inspirant du respect et de l'affection à tous ceux qui avaient le privilège de fréquenter ce modèle masculin formaté par un collège privé anglais. Inévitablement, on inventait des choses à propos de Hugh : par exemple son style, le style de ces lettres admirables que Peter avait lues dans le Times, à des milliers de kilomètres de l'autre côté de l'océan ; et il avait remercié Dieu d'être aux antipodes de ce tumulte malveillant, même si c'était pour entendre les babouins bavasser et les coolies battre leurs épouses. Un jeune étudiant au teint olivâtre se tenait près de lui avec servilité. Lui, il le prendrait sous son aile, l'initierait et lui apprendrait comment réussir. Car il adorait plus que tout accorder de petites attentions qui réchauffaient le cœur des vieilles dames, lesquelles, heureuses d'être considérées malgré leur grand âge et au milieu des épreuves de la vie, se pensaient complètement oubliées et se réjouissaient qu’on pensât encore à elles ; et voilà le cher Hugh qui prenait plaisir à passer une heure à évoquer le passé, à se rappeler de menus détails, à louer le gâteau fait maison — même s’il pouvait en savourer chaque jour en compagnie d’une duchesse et que, vu sa silhouette, il devait consacrer pas mal de temps à ce doux passe-temps. Le Juge suprême, dans sa miséricorde, lui pardonnerait. Peter Walsh n'avait pas de pitié . Il faut bien qu'il y ait des méchants, et Dieu sait que les voyous qui sont pendus pour avoir brisé le crâne d'une jeune fille dans un train font moins de mal dans l'ensemble que Hugh Whitbread et sa gentillesse. Regardez-le maintenant, avançant sur la pointe des pieds en esquissant une petite danse, s'inclinant et se prosternant devant le Premier ministre et Lady Bruton à leur entrée, montrant clairement à tout le monde qu'il était honoré de pouvoir échanger quelques mots en privé avec elle à son passage. Elle s'arrête. Elle secoue sa belle tête marquée par les ans. Elle le remercie probablement pour quelque parole de servilité. Elle a ses petits protégés, des fonctionnaires subalternes dans les bureaux du gouvernement qui s'attachent à accomplir de modestes tâches pour son compte, en échange de quoi elle leur offre à déjeuner. Mais elle vient du XVIIIe siècle. Elle est comme ça.
À présent, Clarissa escortait son Premier ministre à travers la pièce, se pavanant, rayonnante, dans la majesté de ses cheveux gris. Elle portait des boucles d’oreilles et une robe sirène vert et argent. Flottant comme sur des vagues, réajustant ses tresses, elle semblait avoir toujours eu ce don : être, exister, résumer tout cela dans l’instant où elle passait, se retournait, accrochait son foulard à la robe d’une autre femme, le détachait, riait, tout cela avec l’aisance et l’assurance parfaites d’une créature évoluant dans son élément. Mais l’âge l’avait effleurée, telle une sirène, au-dessus des vagues, contemplant dans son miroir le soleil couchant par une douce soirée lumineuse. Il y avait désormais un souffle de tendresse en elle ; sa sévérité, sa pruderie, sa raideur s'étaient désormais adoucies, et tandis qu'elle disait au revoir au gros homme aux galons dorés qui faisait de son mieux — bon courage à lui —, pour paraître important, elle dégageait une dignité inexprimable, une cordialité exquise, comme si elle souhaitait du bien au monde entier et devait maintenant, se trouvant à la lisière même des choses, prendre congé. Voilà à quoi elle le faisait penser. (Mais il n'était pas amoureux d'elle.)
En vérité, Clarissa estimait que le Premier ministre avait bien fait de venir. Et, parcourant les salons avec lui, croisant Sally, Peter, Richard tout à fait enchanté, tous ces gens quelque peu enclins à la jalousie, elle avait ressenti l'ivresse de l'instant, son cœur dilaté, frémissant, gonflé, triomphant... Oui, mais finalement, c'étaient ce que les autres ressentaient, parce que, bien qu'elle aimât ces sensations et éprouvât fourmillements et picotements, ces simulacres, ces victoires (ce cher vieux Peter, par exemple, qui la pensait si brillante), avaient leurs failles, en surface et non pas tapies au fond de l'âme ; et peut-être parce qu'elle prenait de l'âge, ces plaisirs ne la satisfaisaient plus autant qu'autrefois. Soudain, tandis qu'elle voyait le premier ministre descendre les escaliers, le cadre doré du portrait de Sir Joshua représentant la fillette avec un manchon lui rappela brusquement Kilman : Kilman son ennemie. C'était suffisant ; c'était la réalité. Ah, combien elle la détestait cette femme véhémente, hypocrite, corrompue, dotée de ce pouvoir de séduire Élisabeth ; la femme qui s'était immiscée dans leur vie pour voler et salir (Quelle ânerie ! dirait Richard). Elle la haïssait : elle l'aimait. On voulait des ennemis, pas des amis... pas de Mrs Durrant et Clara, ni de Sir William et Lady Bradshaw, ni de Miss Truelock et Eleanor Gibson (qu’elle apercevait en train de monter l’escalier). S'ils la veulent, qu'ils la cherchent. Elle se devait à la fête !
Son vieil ami sir Harry était là.
— Sir Harry, mon cher ! Elle s'approcha du vieil homme sympathique qui avait peint plus de mauvais tableaux à lui tout seul que deux membres de l'académie de St. John's Wood (ses œuvres représentaient toujours des bovins, debout dans la moiteur de mares au coucher du soleil, exprimant, à travers sa gamme limitée de mouvements, comme lever une patte antérieure ou balancer le front, « L'Approche de l'Étranger » ; tout, chez lui, des repas au restaurant aux courses hippiques, semblait toujours ramener à ces bovins dans la moiteur de mares au coucher du soleil.)
— De quoi riez-vous ? lui demanda-t-elle. Car Willie Titcomb, sir Harry et Herbert Ainsty riaient en chœur. Mais non. Sir Harry ne pouvait pas raconter ses histoires de music-hall à Clarissa Dalloway, même s'il l'aimait beaucoup et qu'il la trouvait si parfaite dans son genre qu'il avait menacé de faire son portrait. Il la taquina à propos de sa fête. Son brandy lui manquait. Ces hautes sphères, disait-il, étaient au-dessus de lui. Mais il l’aimait bien et la respectait, malgré ce raffinement agaçant et contraignant de la haute société qui rendait impensable de demander à Clarissa Dalloway de s’asseoir sur ses genoux. Et, attirée par les chaleureux éclats de rire (à propos du Duc et de sa Lady), voilà qu'arriva de l'extrémité du salon, les mains tendues, cette flammerole vagabonde, cette vague phosphorescence, sous les traits de la vieille Mrs Hilbery, semblant rassurée sur un point qui parfois l'inquiétait lorsqu'elle se réveillait tôt et ne voulait pas déranger sa servante pour une tasse de thé : combien il était certain que nous devions mourir.
— Ils refusent de nous raconter leurs histoires, dit Clarissa.
— Chère Clarissa ! s'exclama Mrs Hilbery. Ce soir, continua-t-elle, Clarissa ressemblait tellement à sa mère lorsqu'elle l'avait vue la première fois avec un chapeau gris, se promenant dans un jardin.
Et les yeux de Clarissa s'emplirent de larmes. Sa mère, marchant dans un jardin ! Mais, hélas, elle devait y aller.
Parce que le professeur Brierly, qui donnait des conférences sur Milton, était en train de discuter avec le petit Jim Hutton — incapable, y compris lors d'une soirée sélecte, d'avoir une cravate impeccable et les cheveux en ordre — et même à cette distance, elle les voyait se quereller. Et le professeur Brierly était un drôle d'individu. Avec tous ses diplômes, ses distinctions et ses postes de maître de conférences qui le distinguaient du modeste scribouillard, il percevait immédiatement toute ambiance hostile au curieux mélange qu’il incarnait : une immense érudition mêlée à de la timidité, un charme glacial dépourvu de toute chaleur, une innocence teintée de snobisme ; il frémissait à la vue d’une coiffure négligée chez une dame ou à celle des souliers d'un jeune homme, signes d’un univers souterrain, sans doute admirable, mais peuplé de rebelles, de passionnés et de prétendus génies ; d’un bref mouvement de tête accompagné d'un petit reniflement — Sniff ! —, il évoquait l’importance de la modération et d’une touche de culture classique pour apprécier pleinement Milton. Clarissa se rendait bien compte que la discussion sur Milton entre le professeur Brierly et le petit Jim Hutton, qui portait des chaussettes rouges faute de noires restées à la blanchisserie, tournait mal. Elle les interrompit.
Elle dit qu'elle adorait Bach. Hutton également. Cette adoration commune les liait, et Hutton (un poète franchement médiocre) avait toujours pensé que Mrs Dalloway était, parmi les grandes dames passionnées d’art, de loin la plus remarquable. C'était étrange qu'elle fût si stricte. En matière de musique, elle était tout à fait impersonnelle. Elle était un peu bégueule. Mais si charmante à regarder. Elle rendait sa maison tellement agréable, si seulement ses professeurs n’avaient pas été là. Clarissa avait presque envie de l'arracher de là et de l'asseoir au piano dans la pièce du fond. Car il jouait divinement.
— Mais le bruit ! dit-elle. Le bruit !
— Le signe que la soirée est un succès. Hochant la tête avec courtoisie, le professeur s'éloigna avec tact.
— Il connaît absolument tout concernant Milton, observa Clarissa.
— En êtes-vous sûre ? demanda Hutton, qui imiterait le professeur d'un bout à l'autre de Hampstead : le professeur causant de Milton, le professeur causant de modération, le professeur s'en allant furtivement.
Mais Clarissa l'informa qu'elle devait parler à ce couple, Lord Gayton et Nancy Blow.
Non pas qu'ils fussent plus bruyants que les autres invités. Ils ne bavardaient pas — ou à voix basse — et se tenaient debout côte à côte près des rideaux jaunes. Ils partiraient bientôt tous les deux et jamais ils n'avaient eu grand chose à raconter en aucune circonstance. Ils regardaient, c'était tout. C'était suffisant. Ils semblaient si proprets, si sains, elle avec un maquillage qui lui donnait un teint de fleur d'abricotier, quant à lui il était récuré, rincé, avec les yeux perçants d'un oiseau, de sorte qu'aucune balle n'aurait pu le traverser ou le frapper par surprise. Il donnait des coups, il bondissait avec précision au moment opportun. La bouche des poneys palpitait sous la tension de ses rênes. Il avait des titres, des monuments ancestraux, des bannières accrochées dans l'église paroissiale. Il avait ses obligations, ses métayers, une mère et des sœurs ; il avait passé toute la journée au stade de Lord's, et c'était de cela qu'ils parlaient – de cricket, de cousins, de cinéma – lorsque Mrs Dalloway les aborda. Lord Gayton l'aimait énormément. Miss Blow également. Elle avait des manières si charmantes.
— C'est tellement gentil d'être venus, vous êtes des anges ! dit-elle. Elle aimait Lord's, adorait la jeunesse, et Nancy, habillée avec soin par les plus grands couturiers de Paris, se tenait là, comme si une frange verte avait poussé naturellement sur son corps.
— J'avais prévu d'organiser une soirée dansante, dit Clarissa.
Car les jeunes gens n'ont pas de conversation. Et pourquoi en auraient-ils ? Faire du bruit, se donner l'accolade, s'agiter, se lever à l'aube, apporter du sucre aux poneys, embrasser et caresser le museau des adorables pékinois ; puis, débordant d'énergie, plonger et nager. Mais les vastes ressources de la langue anglaise, et le pouvoir qu’elle accorde, après tout, d'exprimer ses sentiments (à leur âge, Peter et elle auraient passé toute la soirée à débattre), leur échappaient. Ils se cristalliseraient jeunes. Ils seraient d'une aide inestimable pour les gens de leurs propriétés, mais pris individuellement, ils seraient peut-être un peu ennuyeux.
— Quel dommage ! s'exclama-t-elle. J'avais espéré que l'on danserait.
C'était tellement adorable de leur part d'être venus ! Mais quant à danser ! Les salons étaient combles.
La vieille tante Héléna approchait, enveloppée dans son châle. Hélas, elle devait laisser Lord Gayton et Nancy Blow. C'était la vieille Miss Parry, sa tante.
Car Miss Helena Parry n'était point morte : Miss Parry était en vie. Elle avait quatre-vingts ans passés. Elle montait lentement les escaliers à l'aide d'une canne. Elle fut installée dans un fauteuil (Richard y avait pensé). Les gens qui avaient connu la Birmanie dans les années 1870 lui étaient toujours présentés. Où était passé Peter ? Ils avaient été tellement bons amis. Car lorsqu'il s'agissait des Indes, ou même de Ceylan, son regard (elle avait un œil de verre) s'approfondissait doucement, devenait bleu et contemplait non plus des êtres humains — elle n'avait pas de tendres souvenirs, aucune illusion sur les vice-rois, les généraux, les révoltés — son regard contemplait des orchidées, des cols de montagne, des cimes solitaires qu'elle traversait, transportée sur le dos des coolies ; ou alors descendait pour déraciner des orchidées (des fleurs étonnantes, jamais vues auparavant) qu'elle peignait à l'aquarelle ; une Anglaise indomptable, exaspérée par la guerre pendant laquelle une bombe tomba un jour devant sa porte, ce qui perturba sa profonde méditation sur les orchidées et sur sa propre personne voyageant en Inde dans les années 1870... Mais Peter était là.
— Venez parler de la Birmanie à tante Helena, dit Clarissa.
Pourtant, il ne lui avait pas dit un mot de toute la soirée !
Nous causerons plus tard, ajouta-t-elle en le conduisant vers tante Helena, vêtue de son châle blanc et appuyée sur sa canne.
Peter Walsh, annonça-t-elle.
Ce nom ne lui disait rien.
Clarissa l'avait invitée. C'était fatigant ; c'était bruyant ; mais Clarissa l'avait invitée. Alors elle était venue. Quel dommage qu'ils vécussent à Londres... Richard et Clarissa. Ne serait-ce que pour la santé de Clarissa, il eût été préférable de vivre à la campagne. Mais Clarissa avait toujours aimé vivre en société.
— Il a voyagé en Birmanie, précisa Clarissa.
Ah. Elle ne put s'empêcher de se souvenir de ce que Charles Darwin avait dit à propos de son petit livre sur les orchidées de Birmanie.
(Clarissa devait s'entretenir avec lady Bruton.)
Son livre sur les orchidées de Birmanie était sans doute tombé dans l'oubli aujourd'hui, mais il avait connu trois éditions avant 1870, raconta-t-elle à Peter. Elle se souvenait de lui à présent. Il était à Bourton. Peter Walsh se rappelait l’avoir quittée sans dire un mot dans le salon, ce fameux soir où Clarissa lui avait proposé de faire une promenade en bateau.
— Richard a vraiment aimé déjeuner en votre compagnie, confia Clarissa à Lady Bruton.
— Richard m'a été d'une aide précieuse, répondit Lady Bruton. Il m'a aidée à écrire une lettre. Et vous, comment allez-vous ?
— Oh, à merveille ! répondit Clarissa. (Lady Bruton détestait que les épouses des hommes politiques fussent malades.)
— Et voilà Peter Walsh ! s'exclama Lady Bruton qui ne savait jamais quoi dire à Clarissa, même si elle l'aimait bien. Elle avait beaucoup de qualités, mais toutes deux n'avaient rien en commun. Il eût peut-être mieux valu que Richard épousât une femme moins séduisante, qui l'eût davantage aidé dans son travail. Il avait perdu toute chance d'entrer au gouvernement. — Voilà Peter Walsh ! dit-elle en serrant la main de ce charmant mauvais garçon, cet homme talentueux qui aurait dû se faire un nom mais ne l’avait jamais fait (toujours des histoires avec les femmes), et, bien sûr, la vieille Miss Parry. Merveilleuse vieille dame !
Lady Bruton, entièrement vêtue de noir à la façon d'un grenadier fantomatique, se tenait près du fauteuil de Miss Parry ; chaleureuse, mais sans vain papotage, elle ne se rappelait plus rien au sujet de la flore et de la faune aux Indes. Bien sûr, elle y avait séjourné et avait rendu visite à trois vice-rois. Elle pensait que, étonnamment, certains civils étaient des types bien ; mais quelle tragédie c'était... de constater l'état de l'Inde ! Le Premier ministre venait juste de lui dire (la vieille Miss Parry blottie dans son châle se moquait bien de ce que le Premier ministre venait de lui raconter), et Lady Bruton aurait aimé avoir l'avis de Peter Walsh, arrivé récemment d'inde, et lui faire rencontrer Sir Sampson, car vraiment, cette folie l'empêchait de s'endormir le soir, cette cruauté pourrait-elle dire, étant fille de soldat. Elle n'était qu'une femme âgée désormais, plus bonne à grand chose. Mais sa maison, ses servantes, sa chère amie Milly Brush — s'en souvenait-il — étaient disponibles si finalement cela pouvait l'aider. Elle ne parlait jamais de l’Angleterre, mais cette île d’hommes, cette terre chère à son cœur, irriguait ses veines (sans avoir lu Shakespeare), et si une femme avait pu porter un casque et tirer à l’arc, mener des troupes à l’assaut, régner avec une justice inflexible sur des hordes barbares, puis reposer sous un bouclier sans nez dans une église, ou ériger un tertre d'herbe verte sur une colline ancestrale, cette femme-là, c’était Millicent Bruton. Exclue par son sexe et quelques lacunes (n’a-t-elle pas été incapable d'écrire une lettre au Times), elle avait toujours gardé en tête l’idée d’Empire ; grâce à son lien avec ce Dieu en armure, elle avait acquis une posture droite et rigide, ainsi que des manières solides, ce qui rendait difficile de l’imaginer, même dans la mort, hors du sol natal ou errant dans des lieux où, d’une manière fantomatique, l’Union Jack aurait cessé de flotter. Ne pas être anglaise, même parmi les morts... non, non ! Impossible !
Mais était-ce la lady Bruton qu'elle avait connue autrefois ? Était-ce Peter Walsh dont les cheveux grisonnaient ? se demandait lady Rosseter qui avait été naguère Sally Seton. En revanche, il s'agissait bien de la vieille Miss Parry, la vieille tante qui était de si méchante humeur lorsqu'elle séjournait à Bourton. Elle n'oublierait jamais qu'elle avait traversé le couloir entièrement nue et que Miss Parry l'avait fait venir devant elle. Et Clarissa ! oh, Clarissa ! Sally l'attrapa par le bras.
Clarissa s'arrêta à leur hauteur.
— Mais je ne puis rester, dit-elle. Je reviens plus tard. Attendez-moi, dit-elle en jetant un coup d’œil à Peter et Sally. Elle voulait leur dire qu'ils devaient attendre jusqu'à ce que tous ces gens fussent partis.
— Je reviens très vite, dit-elle en prolongeant son regard vers ses vieux amis, Sally et Peter, qui se serraient la main ; Sally, se remémorant sans doute le passé, riait.
Mais sa voix avait perdu le charme envoûtant d’autrefois ; ses yeux n’avaient plus l’éclat qu’ils avaient quand elle fumait des cigares, courait dans le couloir pour aller chercher sa trousse de toilette, nue comme un ver, et qu’Ellen Atkins lui lançait : « Et si les messieurs t’avaient croisée ? » Mais on lui pardonnait tout. Elle avait chapardé un poulet dans le garde-manger parce qu'elle avait un petit creux pendant la nuit ; elle fumait des cigares dans sa chambre ; elle avait oublié un livre à la valeur inestimable au fond de la barque. Tout le monde l'adorait (sauf peut-être Papa). Elle était enthousiaste, pleine de vitalité – elle peignait, elle écrivait. Encore aujourd'hui, les vieilles femmes du village n'oubliaient jamais de demander après « votre amie au manteau rouge qui semblait si brillante ». Elle avait accusé Hugh Whitbread, entre tous (et il était là, son cher ami Hugh, en train de s'entretenir avec l'ambassadeur portugais), de l'avoir embrassée dans le fumoir afin de la punir pour avoir déclaré que les femmes devraient voter. Les hommes étaient grossiers, avait-elle affirmé. Et Clarissa se souvenait de l'avoir convaincue de ne pas dénoncer Hugh lors de la prière familiale... ce qu'elle était bien capable de faire avec son aplomb, sa désinvolture, son penchant pour le mélodrame et son désir d'être au centre de tout, de faire des scènes, et il était certain, pensait Clarissa, que cela se terminerait par une affreuse tragédie : sa mort, son calvaire. Au lieu de quoi elle avait épousé, de façon plutôt inattendue, un homme chauve avec une grande fleur à sa boutonnière qui possédait, disait-on, des filatures de coton à Manchester. Et elle avait cinq garçons !
Peter et elle s'étaient assis l'un à côté de l'autre. Ils discutaient : cela paraissait tellement habituel... qu'ils fussent en train de bavarder. Ils parleraient sûrement du passé. Avec ces deux-là (davantage même qu'avec Richard) elle partageait son passé ; le jardin, les arbres ; le vieux Joseph Breitkopf qui chantait Brahms sans la moindre voix ; le papier peint du salon ; l'odeur des tapis. Sally ferait toujours partie du passé, Peter également. Mais elle devait les quitter. Il y avait les Bradshaw, qu'elle détestait. Elle devait aller voir Lady Bradshaw, vêtue de gris et d’argent, se balançant telle une otarie au bord de son bassin, réclamant invitations ou duchesses, incarnation parfaite de l’épouse d’un homme ayant réussi, elle devait y aller et lui dire... ... ...
Mais lady Bradshaw la devança.
— Nous sommes scandaleusement en retard, chère Mrs Dalloway, nous osions à peine entrer, dit-elle.
Sir William, très élégant avec ses cheveux gris et ses yeux bleus, répondit que oui, ils n’avaient pas pu résister à la tentation. Il parlait probablement à Richard de ce projet de loi, qu'ils voulaient faire passer à la Chambre des communes. Pourquoi voir sir William parler à Richard l'avait-elle bouleversée ? Il avait l'air de ce qu'il était, un excellent médecin. Un homme au sommet de son art, très puissant, un peu fatigué. Il fallait penser aux situations qui se présentaient à lui : des personnes plongées dans la plus grande misère, d’autres au bord de la folie, des maris et des épouses. Il devait régler des questions d'une difficulté effroyable. Elle sentait pourtant que personne ne souhaiterait jamais que Sir William vous vît malheureux. Non, pas cet homme.
— Comment se porte votre fils à Eton ? demanda-t-elle à lady Bradshaw.
Lady Bradshaw expliqua que, à cause des oreillons, il n’avait pas pu être sélectionné dans l’équipe première de cricket. Elle pensait que son père en avait été encore plus affecté que lui, n'étant lui-même qu'un grand enfant.
Clarissa regarda Sir William qui causait avec Richard. Il n'avait pas l'air d'un enfant... pas le moindrement du monde. Elle avait déjà accompagné une personne qui voulait une consultation. Il avait été vraiment correct et très à l'écoute. Mais mon Dieu... quel soulagement de se retrouver dans la rue ! Elle se rappelait avoir aperçu un pauvre homme sangloter dans la salle d’attente. Mais elle ne savait pas ce qui la dérangeait... chez Sir William ; ce qui précisément lui déplaisait. Seul Richard était d'accord avec elle et disait : « Je n'aime pas son attitude, je n'aime pas ce qu'il dégage ». Mais il était remarquablement compétent. Ils étaient en train de parler de ce projet de loi. Baissant la voix, Sir William mentionna un cas. Cela avait un rapport avec ce qu'il affirmait à propos des effets différés du stress post-traumatique. Il devait y avoir des dispositions à ce sujet dans la loi.
En chuchotant, Lady Bradshaw entraîna Mrs Dalloway dans le cocon d'une féminité partagée, d'une fierté commune de leurs éminents maris et de leur fâcheuse tendance à se surmener, puis elle murmura (quelle nigaude... mais elle était gentillette) : — Au moment de partir, mon époux a reçu un appel téléphonique, une vilaine affaire. Un jeune homme (c'est ce que Sir William était en train de raconter à Mr Dalloway) s'est suicidé. Il avait été sous les drapeaux. Oh ! au beau milieu de ma soirée, voilà la mort qui s'invite, songea Clarissa.
Elle entra dans la petite pièce où le Premier ministre était allé avec Lady Bruton. Peut-être y avait-il quelqu'un ? Non, il n'y avait personne. Les chaises portaient encore l'empreinte du Premier ministre et de Lady Bruton : elle tournée avec déférence, lui fermement assis et rayonnant d'autorité. Ils avaient parlé de l'Inde. Il n'y avait personne. La splendeur de la fête semblait s'estomper, et elle trouvait étrange d'entrer ici, seule, dans ses plus beaux atours.
De quel droit les Bradshaw osaient-ils parler de mort lors de sa réception ? Un jeune homme s'était donné la mort. Et ils en parlaient à sa soirée... les Bradshaw... ils parlaient de mort ! Il s'était donné la mort... mais comment ? Son corps réagissait toujours en premier lorsqu’on lui annonçait brusquement un accident ; sa robe s’embrasait, sa peau brûlait. Il s'était jeté par une fenêtre. Le sol s'était soulevé à sa rencontre ; les sinistres pointes rouillées de la grille avaient maladroitement transpercé son corps. Il était resté allongé là... des battements sourds, prolongés, résonnant dans sa tête, avant que tout ne fût englouti par une obscurité suffocante. C'était comme cela qu'elle voyait la scène. Mais pourquoi avait-il fait ça ? Et les Bradshaw qui en parlaient à sa soirée !
Elle avait déjà jeté un shilling dans le lac Serpentine, une seule fois. Mais lui l'avait lancé très loin. La vie continuait ; elle devait retourner à ses obligations ; les salons étaient encore pleins ; d'autres invités arrivaient encore. Tous — toute la journée, elle avait pensé à Bourton, à Peter, à Sally—, tous allaient vieillir. Il n'y avait qu'une chose qui comptait ; une chose qui dans sa vie était noyée dans les bavardages, dégradée, assombrie, glissant chaque jour dans la corruption, les mensonges et les papotages futiles. Une chose que le jeune défunt avait préservée. La mort était un acte de défi. La mort était une tentative de communication ; les gens ressentant l'impossibilité d'en atteindre le cœur qui, de façon mystique, se dérobait ; ce qui semblait proche s'éloignait, l'extase s'estompait ; chacun se retrouvait seul. Il y avait une étreinte dans la mort.
Mais ce jeune homme qui s'était donné la mort... avait-il sombré en emportant son trésor ? « Si je devais mourir maintenant, je serais la plus heureuse », s'était-elle dit autrefois en descendant les marches, vêtue d'une robe blanche.
Ou bien c'étaient des poètes, des philosophes. Supposons qu'il ait eu cette obsession et qu'il soit allé consulter Sir William Bradshaw, grand médecin qui lui semblait néanmoins sinistre ; sans convoitise ni désir, toujours extrêmement poli avec les femmes, mais capable d'une violence indicible, celle de forcer votre âme même, voilà ce qu'il était ; si ce jeune homme était allé le voir et que Sir William l'avait impressionné avec ce genre de pouvoir, n'aurait-il pas pensé (elle le ressentait ainsi à présent) que la vie était insupportable, que des hommes comme lui rendaient la vie insupportable ?
Puis, comme elle l'avait éprouvé ce matin-là, il y avait la terreur, ce sentiment écrasant d'incapacité, vos parents vous confient cette vie, attendant de vous que vous la meniez à bien, que vous la traversiez avec sérénité ; et au fond de votre cœur subsiste une peur profonde et troublante. Même maintenant, assez souvent, si Richard n'avait pas été là en train de lire le Times, de sorte qu'elle puisse se réfugier contre lui comme un oiseau apeuré qui revit peu à peu, amasse brindille après brindille pour construire son nid, une chose après l'autre et sent croître en lui un incommensurable plaisir, elle aurait succombé. Mais ce jeune homme s'était donné la mort.
D'une façon ou d'une autre, c'était son malheur... son déshonneur. C'était son châtiment de voir sombrer et disparaître un homme ici, une femme là-bas, dans ces noirceurs profondes, alors qu'elle était contrainte de rester là, dans sa robe de soirée. Elle avait manigancé, elle avait fraudé. Elle n'était jamais complètement louable. Elle avait voulu le succès, Lady Bexborough et tout le reste. Et autrefois, elle marchait sur la terrasse à Bourton.
C'était dû à Richard ; elle n'avait jamais été si heureuse. Rien n’allait jamais assez doucement, rien ne semblait durer assez longtemps. En redressant les chaises et en remettant à sa place un livre esseulé sur l’étagère, elle pensait qu’aucun plaisir n’égalait celui de vivre ; après avoir laissé derrière elle les triomphes de la jeunesse et s’être perdue dans le cours banal de l’existence, elle retrouvait ce plaisir dans un élan de joie, alors que le soleil montait et que le jour s’effaçait. Souvent, à Bourton, tandis que les autres discutaient, elle sortait pour admirer le ciel ; parfois, elle l’apercevait entre les têtes des convives pendant le dîner ; et à Londres, elle le contemplait lorsqu’elle n’arrivait pas à dormir. Elle se dirigea vers la fenêtre.
Aussi absurde que fût cette idée, elle avait l’impression qu’un petit bout de ciel lui appartenait, ce ciel qui s'étendait au-dessus de Westminster. Elle écarta les rideaux et se mit à observer. Mais quelle surprise !... Dans la chambre d'en face, la vieille dame la fixait du regard ! Elle allait se coucher. Et le ciel ! Elle avait pensé que ce serait un ciel solennel, un ciel sombre, qui détournerait sa joue en révélant toute sa beauté. Mais il était là... d'une pâleur cendrée, rapidement parcouru par d'immenses nuages effilochés. C'était nouveau pour elle. Le vent avait dû se lever. Elle va se coucher, dans la chambre juste en face. C'était fascinant de voir cette vieille dame se déplacer, traverser la pièce et s'approcher de la fenêtre. Pouvait-elle la voir ? C’était fascinant de voir cette vieille femme aller tranquillement se coucher, tandis que les gens continuaient à rire et à parler fort dans le salon. Elle tira les rideaux. L'horloge se mit à sonner. Le jeune homme s'était suicidé ; mais elle n'éprouvait aucune compassion pour lui ; alors que l'horloge sonnait l'heure, une, deux, trois coups, non, elle n'éprouvait aucune compassion pour lui, malgré tout ce qui se passait. Voilà ! La vieille dame avait éteint la lumière ! À présent, toute la maison était plongée dans l'obscurité — malgré tout ce qui se passait, répéta-t-elle—, et les mots suivants lui vinrent : « Ne crains plus la chaleur du soleil. » Il fallait qu'elle retourne auprès de ses invités. Mais quelle extraordinaire nuit ! Elle se sentait en quelque sorte très proche de lui... ce jeune homme qui s'était suicidé. Elle était contente qu'il l'ait fait, qu'il ait jeté son shilling. La pendule carillonnait. Les cercles de plomb se dissolvaient dans l'air. Il lui avait fait ressentir la beauté, le plaisir. Mais elle devait y retourner. Elle devait se ressaisir, retrouver Sally et Peter. Elle sortit de la petite pièce.
— Mais où est Clarissa ? demanda Peter. Il était assis sur le sofa à côté de Sally. (Après toutes ces années, il ne pouvait se résoudre à l'appeler « Lady Rosseter »). Où est-elle passée ? insista-t-il. Où est Clarissa ?
Sally présumait, et d'ailleurs Peter pensait la même chose, qu'il y avait des invités de renom, des politiciens qu'ils ne connaissaient que pour avoir vu leurs portraits dans les journaux, mais pour lesquels Clarissa se devait d'être agréable et leur faire la conversation. Elle était en leur compagnie. Pourtant, Richard Dalloway ne faisait pas partie du Cabinet. N'avait-il pas eu de succès ? se demandait Sally. Car elle-même ne lisait presque jamais les journaux. De temps à autre, elle y lisait son nom. Ceci dit... eh bien, elle avait une vie très solitaire, en pleine nature, dirait Clarissa, au milieu des grands négociants, des nombreux industriels, des hommes qui, après tout, faisaient des choses. Elle aussi avait fait des choses !
— J'ai cinq fils ! dit-elle à Peter.
Mon Dieu, quel changement en elle ! La douceur et l'égoïsme de la maternité. La dernière fois qu'ils s'étaient rencontrés, Peter s'en souvenait, c'était au clair de lune, parmi les choux-fleurs, avec des feuilles « comme du bronze brut » avait-elle dit, avec son style romanesque ; et elle avait cueilli une rose. Elle l'avait fait marcher de long en large durant cette horrible nuit, après la scène à la fontaine ; il devait attraper le train de minuit. Juste ciel, il avait pleuré !
C'était chez lui une vieille manie d'ouvrir son canif, pensa Sally, ouvrir et fermer sans cesse son couteau quand il était énervé. Ils avaient été vraiment très intimes Peter et elle, lorsqu'il était amoureux de Clarissa, puis il y avait eu cette scène horrible et grotesque lors d'un déjeuner à propos de Richard Dalloway. Elle avait appelé Richard « Wickham ». Et pourquoi ne pas l'appeler « Wickham » ? Clarissa s'était emportée violemment ! et en dix ans, toutes deux ne s'étaient pas revues plus d'une demi-douzaine de fois. Ensuite Peter Walsh était parti pour l'Inde et elle avait ouï-dire qu'il avait fait un mariage malheureux. Elle ignorait s'il avait des enfants et ne pouvait le lui demander, car il avait changé. Il était plutôt fané mais paraissait plus gentil et elle avait une réelle affection pour lui car il faisait partie de sa jeunesse ; elle avait gardé un petit livre d' Emily Brontë qu'il lui avait offert et puis, sûrement, il écrivait ? À l'époque, il désirait écrire.
— Avez-vous écrit ? lui demanda-t-elle en étalant sa main ferme et harmonieuse sur son genou d'une manière dont il se souvint.
— Pas un seul mot ! répondit Peter Walsh, et elle éclata de rire.
Elle était encore attrayante, encore coquette, Sally Seton. Mais qui était ce Rosseter ? Il avait deux camélias en boutonnière le jour de son mariage... c'était tout ce que Peter savait de lui. « Ils ont des milliers de domestiques, des kilomètres de serres », écrivait Clarissa ; quelque chose comme ça. Sally assumait cela dans un éclat de rire.
Elle disait qu’elle gagnait dix mille livres par an, avant ou après impôts, elle ne savait plus vraiment, car c’était son mari qui s’occupait de tout ça. — Vous devriez le rencontrer, ajouta-t-elle, vous allez l’adorer.
Sally, autrefois habillée comme une mendigote. Pour venir à Bourton, elle avait mis en gage la bague de sa grand-mère, que Marie-Antoinette avait offerte à son arrière-grand-père.
Ah oui, Sally s'en souvenait ; elle l'avait toujours, une bague en rubis que Marie-Antoinette avait offerte à son arrière-grand-père. À l’époque, elle n’avait pas un sou et se rendre à Bourton représentait toujours une dépense importante. Aller à Bourton avait tellement compté pour elle — ça l’avait aidée à ne pas perdre pied, pensait-elle, vu à quel point elle était malheureuse chez elle. Mais elle disait aussi que tout cela appartenait au passé, que désormais tout était fini. Et Mr Parry était mort ; Miss Parry, elle, était toujours en vie. Il n'avait jamais éprouvé un tel choc de toute sa vie ! dit Peter. Il était persuadé qu'elle était morte. Et le mariage avait été une réussite ? supposait Sally. Et cette jeune femme en rouge, très belle et très posée, là-bas près des rideaux, c'était Elizabeth ?
(Pour Willie Ticomb, elle était comme un peuplier, comme une rivière, une jacinthe. Oh, comme c'était agréable d'être à la campagne et de faire ce qu'elle aimait ! Elle pouvait entendre son pauvre chien hurler, Elizabeth en était certaine.) Elle ne ressemblait pas du tout à Clarissa, dit Peter Walsh.
— Oh, Clarissa ! dit Sally.
Ce que Sally ressentait était simplement ceci. Elle devait vraiment beaucoup à Clarissa. Elles avaient été amies, pas de simples connaissances, de véritables amies, et elle voyait encore Clarissa tout de blanc vêtue, circulant dans la maison les mains chargées de fleurs... encore aujourd'hui, les plants de tabac lui rappelaient Bourton. Mais... Peter l'avait-il compris ? ... quelque chose lui faisait défaut. Que lui manquait-il ? Elle avait du charme, un charme inouï. Mais franchement — et elle estimait que Peter était un vieil ami, un ami sincère — l'absence était-elle un problème ? la distance était-elle un problème ? Elle avait souvent tenté de lui écrire mais elle déchirait tout ; pourtant elle sentait qu'il pouvait comprendre, car les amis proches comprennent sans qu'on leur dise les choses, on s'en rend compte en prenant de l'âge, et elle en avait pris. Cet après-midi, elle était allée à Eton voir ses fils qui souffraient des oreillons. Sincèrement, Comment Clarissa avait-elle pu faire cela ? ... épouser Richard Dalloway ? un sportif, un homme qui ne prend soin que de ses chiens. Littéralement, lorsqu'il entrait dans une pièce, il était imprégné d'une odeur d'écurie. Et puis tout cela ? Elle fit un signe de la main.
C'était Hugh Whitbread déambulant dans son veston blanc, lugubre, gras, insensible et indifférent à tout, sauf à sa petite personne et à son confort.
— Il ne va pas nous reconnaître, dit Sally, et en réalité, elle n'avait pas le courage... Ainsi c'était donc Hugh ! l'admirable Hugh !
— Et que fait-il ? demanda-t-elle à Peter.
Il cire les bottes du roi ou compte les bouteilles à Windsor, lui répondit Peter. Peter avait gardé sa langue acérée ! — Soyez franche, demanda Peter à Sally. Ce baiser maintenant... celui de Hugh ?
— Sur les lèvres, lui assura-t-elle, dans le fumoir, un soir. Bouillonnant de colère, elle s'était précipitée vers Clarissa. « Hugh ne faisait pas de telles choses ! » lui avait dit Clarissa, pas l'admirable Hugh ! Les chaussettes de Hugh étaient sans conteste les plus belles qu'elle eût jamais vues... et aujourd'hui encore, il fallait voir sa tenue de soirée. Impeccable ! Et avait-il des enfants ?
— Tout le monde dans cette pièce a six fils à Eton, lui dit Peter, excepté moi. Quant à Hugh, grâce à Dieu, il n'en avait pas. Pas de fils, pas de filles, pas d'épouse. Eh bien, cela ne semble pas le déranger, dit Sally. Elle pensa qu'il avait l'air plus jeune que tous les autres.
Peter disait que c’était, à bien des égards, une idée stupide de se marier de cette façon ; il ajouta qu’elle avait été vraiment idiote, et qu’ils avaient passé un moment formidable. Mais comment cela pouvait-il être possible ? se demanda Sally. Qu'entendait-il par là ? Et n’était-ce pas étrange de le connaître sans avoir la moindre idée de ce que fut son existence. Et disait-il cela par fierté ? Très probablement, car après tout, ça devait être pénible pour lui (même s'il avait une personnalité singulière, il tenait un peu du lutin, pas du tout de l'individu lambda), et à son âge, ça devait être triste de n’avoir ni domicile ni endroit où aller. Mais il pouvait séjourner chez eux pendant des semaines. Il acceptait volontiers et serait très heureux de demeurer chez eux, voilà comment cela se passa.. Les Dalloway n'étaient jamais venus durant toutes ces années. Ils avaient été invités maintes et maintes fois. Clarissa (car c'était elle évidemment) refusait de venir. Parce que, expliqua Sally, Clarissa était une snob dans l'âme... il fallait bien l'admettre : une snob. Et c'était cela qui les éloignait l'une de l'autre, elle en était persuadée. Clarissa estimait que son amie avait fait un mariage en dessous de sa classe sociale ; mais Sally était fière que son mari fût fils de mineur. Le moindre penny qu'il possédait, il l'avait gagné. Petit garçon (sa voix trembla) il transportait d'énormes sacs.
Et elle allait continuer ainsi pendant des heures, songeait Peter : le fils de mineur, les gens qui pensaient qu'elle avait épousé un homme de classe inférieure, ses cinq fils, que sais-je encore... les plantes : hortensias, seringas, très très rares hibiscus à fleurs de lys qui ne s'épanouissaient jamais au nord du canal de Suez, mais elle, grâce à son jardinier, en avait à foison dans la banlieue de Manchester ! Aussi peu maternelle qu'elle fût, Clarissa avait échappé à tout cela.
Était-elle snob ? Oui, par bien des aspects. Où était-elle, depuis le temps ? Il se faisait tard.
— Cependant, continuait Sally, lorsque j'ai entendu dire que Clarissa organisait une soirée, j'ai su que je ne pouvais pas ne pas venir.. que je devais la revoir (et je loge dans Victoria Street, pour ainsi la porte à côté). Alors je suis venue, sans invitation. Mais, murmura-t-elle, dites-moi, qui est cette personne ?
C'était Mrs Hilbery qui cherchait la porte. Car il était bien tard ! Et, murmura-t-elle, comme la nuit avance, comme les gens s'en vont, on retrouve de vieux amis, des coins et des recoins tranquilles, et les perspectives les plus charmantes. Savent-ils, demanda-t-elle, qu'ils sont entourés d'un jardin féérique ? Des lumières, des arbres, de splendides étendues d'eau scintillantes, et le ciel. Juste quelques lanternes féériques au fond du jardin ! avait demandé Clarissa. Mais c'était une magicienne ! C'était un parc. . . . Et elle ne connaissait pas leurs noms mais elle savait que c'étaient des amis, des amis sans noms, des chants sans paroles, toujours le meilleur. Mais il y avait tellement de portes, tellement de recoins inattendus, qu'elle ne savait plus où aller.
— La vieille Mrs Hilbery, dit Peter, mais qui est-ce ? cette femme qui s'est tenue près du rideau toute la soirée sans dire un mot ? Il connaissait ce visage, le rattachait à Bourton. C'était elle qui taillait des sous-vêtements sur la grande table près de la fenêtre ? Davidson ?... ne s'appelait-elle pas Davidson ?
— Oh, c'est Ellie Henderson, dit Sally. Clarissa était vraiment très dure avec elle. C'était une cousine, très pauvre. Clarissa était dure avec les gens.
On peut le dire, ajouta Peter. — Pourtant, comme Clarissa savait être généreuse avec ses amis ! dit Sally, avec son émotion familière et cet enthousiasme que Peter aimait tant chez elle, mais qu’il redoutait un peu désormais, tant son amie pouvait se montrer démonstrative. Quelle qualité rare c'était, et quand parfois à la veillée de Noël ou le lendemain, elle faisait le compte des bénédictions qu'elle avait reçues, cette amitié venait toujours en premier. Elles étaient jeunes ; voilà tout. Clarissa avait le cœur pur ; rien de plus. Peter la trouvait sentimentale. Elle l'était. Elle en était arrivée à croire que la seule chose qui valût vraiment la peine d’être dite, c’était ce que l’on ressentait. Vouloir finasser était ridicule. Rester simple et dire ce que l'on ressentait.
— Mais je ne sais pas, dit Peter Walsh, ce que je ressens.
Pauvre Peter, pensa Sally. Pourquoi Clarissa ne venait-elle pas leur parler ? C'est ce qu'il attendait. Elle le savait bien. Il ne cessait de penser à Clarissa, à elle seule, jouant distraitement avec son couteau.
Peter dit qu'il n'avait pas trouvé la vie facile. Ses relations avec Clarissa n'avaient pas été un long chemin de roses. Il dit que cela lui avait gâché l'existence. (Ils avaient été si proches, Sally Seton et lui, qu'il eût été absurde de taire cela.) — On ne peut pas tomber amoureux deux fois*, déclara-t-il. Que pourrait-elle d'ailleurs lui dire ? Qu'il vaut mieux avoir aimé... (mais il la trouverait sentimentale – il était si caustique autrefois). Il devrait venir séjourner quelque temps avec eux à Manchester. Tout cela est bien vrai, dit-il. Bien vrai. Il aimerait vraiment aller chez eux et y rester, dès qu’il aurait fini ce qu’il avait à faire à Londres.
En outre, Clarissa l'avait aimé plus qu'elle n'avait jamais aimé Richard. Sally en était convaincue.
— Non, non, non ! fit Peter (Sally n'aurait pas dû dire ça... elle allait trop loin). Ce brave garçon, il était là, au fond de la pièce, parlant avec entrain, comme toujours : ce cher vieux Richard. À qui parle-t-il ? demanda Sally. Qui est cet homme à l'allure très distinguée ? Vivant au cœur de la nature sauvage, elle nourrissait une insatiable curiosité pour découvrir qui étaient les gens. Mais Peter l'ignorait. Il n'aimait pas son allure, c'était probablement un membre du gouvernement. De tous, Richard lui semblait le meilleur, disait-il, le plus désintéressé.
— Mais qu'avait-il fait ? demanda Sally. Des travaux publics, supposait-elle. Et étaient-ils heureux ensemble ? demanda Sally, (elle se sentait personnellement extrêmement heureuse), et elle admit qu'elle ne savait rien à leur sujet, qu'elle avait simplement tiré des conclusions hâtives, comme le font souvent les gens. Après tout, que peut-on vraiment savoir des autres, y compris des personnes avec lesquelles on vit tous les jours ? demanda-t-elle. Ne sommes-nous pas tous prisonniers ? Elle avait lu une merveilleuse pièce de théâtre sur un homme qui griffonnait sur les murs de sa cellule, et elle pensait que c’était un peu comme la vie : on gribouille toujours sur les murs. Désespérée par les relations humaines (les gens étaient si compliqués), elle se rendait souvent dans son jardin et trouvait dans ses fleurs une paix que les hommes et les femmes ne lui procuraient jamais. Peter dit qu'il n'aimait pas les choux et qu'il préférait les êtres humains. Sally, apercevant Elizabeth traverser le salon, remarqua que les jeunes gens d'aujourd'hui étaient beaux. Comme elle était différente de Clarissa au même âge ! Pouvait-il tirer quelque chose d'elle ? Elle ne daignait pas ouvrir les lèvres. Peter admit que non, pas encore. Sally fit observer qu'on eût dit un lys, un lys sur le bord d'un étang. Mais Peter n'était pas d'accord avec l'idée que nous ne savons rien. Nous savons tout, déclara-t-il ; enfin, lui savait tout.
Mais ces deux-là, murmura Sally, ces deux personnes qui avancent vers nous (vraiment, elle s'en irait si Clarissa ne venait pas bientôt), cet homme élégant, accompagné d'une épouse plutôt ordinaire, qui avait discuté avec Richard, que pouvait-on savoir de gens comme eux ?
— Que ce sont de maudits imposteurs, l'informa Peter nonchalamment. Cela fit rire Sally.
Mais Sir William Bradshaw s'arrêta à la porte pour examiner un tableau. Il chercha dans un coin le nom du graveur. Son épouse également. Sir William Bradshaw était passionné d'art.
Lorsque nous étions jeunes, continua Peter, nous étions trop exaltés pour rencontrer des gens. Maintenant que nous prenons de l'âge, cinquante-deux ans pour être précis (Sally en avait cinquante-cinq, physiquement précisa-t-elle, mais dans son cœur elle avait toujours vingt ans) ; maintenant que nous avons gagné en maturité, nous pouvons observer, comprendre, sans perdre la faculté de ressentir, dit Peter. — C'est tout à fait vrai, répondit Sally. D'année en année, elle ressentait les choses plus intensément, plus passionnément. — Hélas, peut-être que cela est exacerbé, mais nous devrions nous en réjouir... son propre vécu en était un exemple. Il y avait quelqu'un en Inde. 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
unit 1
Part VIII.
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unit 4
Did it matter, did it matter in the least, one Prime Minister more or less?
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unit 11
The tokay, said Lucy running in.
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unit 12
Mr. Dalloway had sent for the tokay, from the Emperor's cellars, the Imperial Tokay.
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unit 13
It was borne through the kitchen.
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unit 16
Jenny must remember the dog.
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unit 17
But Jenny was not going upstairs with all those people about.
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unit 18
There was a motor at the door already!
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unit 23
And Miss Alice didn't need rouge, said Mrs. Barnet, looking at her fondly.
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unit 25
The dear old body, said Lady Lovejoy, mounting the stairs, Clarissa's old nurse.
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unit 26
And then Lady Lovejoy stiffened.
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unit 27
"Lady and Miss Lovejoy," she said to Mr. Wilkins (hired for parties).
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unit 29
.
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unit 30
.
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unit 31
Sir John and Lady Needham .
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unit 32
.
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.
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unit 34
Miss Weld .
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.
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unit 36
.
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unit 37
Mr.
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unit 38
Walsh."
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unit 40
"How delightful to see you!"
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unit 41
said Clarissa.
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unit 42
She said it to every one.
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unit 43
How delightful to see you!
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unit 44
She was at her worst--effusive, insincere.
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unit 45
It was a great mistake to have come.
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unit 48
She could see Peter out of the tail of her eye, criticising her, there, in that corner.
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unit 49
Why, after all, did she do these things?
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unit 50
Why seek pinnacles and stand drenched in fire?
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unit 51
Might it consume her anyhow!
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unit 52
Burn her to cinders!
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unit 54
It was extraordinary how Peter put her into these states just by coming and standing in a corner.
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unit 55
He made her see herself; exaggerate.
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unit 56
It was idiotic.
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unit 57
But why did he come, then, merely to criticise?
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unit 58
Why always take, never give?
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unit 59
Why not risk one's one little point of view?
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unit 60
There he was wandering off, and she must speak to him.
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unit 61
But she would not get the chance.
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unit 62
Life was that--humiliation, renunciation.
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unit 64
It was delicious, how they petted each other, that old couple.
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unit 65
She did like old Lord Lexham.
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unit 69
(For the windows were open.)
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unit 70
Was it draughty, Ellie Henderson wondered?
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unit 71
She was subject to chills.
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unit 74
For her invitation to Clarissa's party had come at the last moment.
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unit 75
She was not quite happy about it.
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unit 76
She had a sort of feeling that Clarissa had not meant to ask her this year.
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unit 77
Why should she?
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unit 78
There was no reason really, except that they had always known each other.
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unit 79
Indeed, they were cousins.
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unit 80
But naturally they had rather drifted apart, Clarissa being so sought after.
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unit 81
It was an event to her, going to a party.
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unit 82
It was quite a treat just to see the lovely clothes.
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unit 83
Wasn't that Elizabeth, grown up, with her hair done in the fashionable way, in the pink dress?
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unit 84
Yet she could not be more than seventeen.
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unit 85
She was very, very handsome.
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unit 86
But girls when they first came out didn't seem to wear white as they used.
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unit 87
(She must remember everything to tell Edith.)
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unit 88
Girls wore straight frocks, perfectly tight, with skirts well above the ankles.
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unit 89
It was not becoming, she thought.
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unit 91
"Well, Ellie, and how's the world treating you?"
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unit 93
"Yes, they do," said Richard Dalloway.
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unit 94
"Yes."
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unit 95
But what more did one say?
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unit 97
He was delighted to see him--ever so pleased to see him!
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unit 98
He hadn't changed a bit.
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unit 100
A tall man, middle aged, rather fine eyes, dark, wearing spectacles, with a look of John Burrows.
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unit 101
Edith would be sure to know.
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unit 102
The curtain with its flight of birds of Paradise blew out again.
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unit 103
And Clarissa saw--she saw Ralph Lyon beat it back, and go on talking.
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unit 104
So it wasn't a failure after all!
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unit 105
it was going to be all right now--her party.
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unit 106
It had begun.
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unit 107
It had started.
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unit 108
But it was still touch and go.
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unit 109
She must stand there for the present.
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unit 110
People seemed to come in a rush.
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unit 111
Colonel and Mrs. Garrod .
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unit 112
.
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unit 113
.
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unit 114
Mr. Hugh Whitbread .
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 115
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 116
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 117
Mr. Bowley .
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 118
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 119
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 120
Mrs. Hilbery .
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 121
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 122
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 123
Lady Mary Maddox .
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 124
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 125
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 126
Mr. Quin .
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 127
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 128
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 129
intoned Wilkin.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 131
And yet for her own part, it was too much of an effort.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 132
She was not enjoying it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 4 days ago
unit 136
But not for her; not yet anyhow.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 137
"How delightful to see you!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 138
she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 139
Dear old Sir Harry!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 140
He would know every one.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 142
"How awfully good of you to come!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 144
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 145
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 146
What name?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 147
Lady Rosseter?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 148
But who on earth was Lady Rosseter?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 149
"Clarissa!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 150
That voice!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 151
It was Sally Seton!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 152
Sally Seton!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 153
after all these years!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 154
She loomed through a mist.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 156
Not like that!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 158
So I thrust myself in--without an invitation.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 159
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 160
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 161
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 162
One might put down the hot water can quite composedly.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 163
The lustre had gone out of her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 164
Yet it was extraordinary to see her again, older, happier, less lovely.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 166
"I have five enormous boys," said Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 168
"I can't believe it!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 169
she cried, kindling all over with pleasure at the thought of the past.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 3 days ago
unit 171
The Prime Minister?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 172
Was it really?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 173
Ellie Henderson marvelled.
2 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 174
What a thing to tell Edith!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 175
One couldn't laugh at him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 176
He looked so ordinary.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 177
unit 179
He tried to look somebody.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 180
It was amusing to watch.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 181
Nobody looked at him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 184
Lord, lord, the snobbery of the English!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 185
thought Peter Walsh, standing in the corner.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 186
How they loved dressing up in gold lace and doing homage!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 187
There!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 192
An olive-skinned youth from one of the Universities stood obsequiously by.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 193
Him he would patronise, initiate, teach how to get on.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 195
The All-judging, the All-merciful, might excuse.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 196
Peter Walsh had no mercy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 199
She stopped.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 200
She wagged her fine old head.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 201
She was thanking him presumably for some piece of servility.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 203
But she derived from the eighteenth century.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 204
She was all right.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 206
She wore ear-rings, and a silver-green mermaid's dress.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 210
So she made him think.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 211
(But he was not in love.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 212
Indeed, Clarissa felt, the Prime Minister had been good to come.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 214
That was satisfying; that was real.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 216
She hated her: she loved her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 218
They must find her if they wanted her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 219
She was for the party!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 220
There was her old friend Sir Harry.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 221
"Dear Sir Harry!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 223
"What are you laughing at?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 224
she asked him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 225
For Willie Titcomb and Sir Harry and Herbert Ainsty were all laughing.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 226
But no.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 228
He chaffed her about her party.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 229
He missed his brandy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 230
These circles, he said, were above him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 233
"They won't tell us their stories," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 234
"Dear Clarissa!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 235
exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks ago
unit 237
And really Clarissa's eyes filled with tears.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 238
Her mother, walking in a garden!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 239
But alas, she must go.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 241
For Professor Brierly was a very queer fish.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 244
She interrupted.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 245
She said she loved Bach.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 246
So did Hutton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 248
It was odd how strict she was.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 249
About music she was purely impersonal.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 250
She was rather a prig.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 251
But how charming to look at!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 252
She made her house so nice if it weren't for her Professors.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 253
Clarissa had half a mind to snatch him off and set him down at the piano in the back room.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 254
For he played divinely.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 255
"But the noise!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 256
she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 257
"The noise!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 258
"The sign of a successful party."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 259
Nodding urbanely, the Professor stepped delicately off.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 260
"He knows everything in the whole world about Milton," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 261
"Does he indeed?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 263
But she must speak to that couple, said Clarissa, Lord Gayton and Nancy Blow.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 264
Not that they added perceptibly to the noise of the party.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 265
They were not talking (perceptibly) as they stood side by side by the yellow curtains.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 266
They would soon be off elsewhere, together; and never had very much to say in any circumstances.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 267
They looked; that was all.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 268
That was enough.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 270
He struck, he leapt, accurately, on the spot.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 271
Ponies' mouths quivered at the end of his reins.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 272
He had his honours, ancestral monuments, banners hanging in the church at home.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 274
Lord Gayton liked her most awfully.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 275
So did Miss Blow.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 276
She had such charming manners.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 277
"It is angelic--it is delicious of you to have come!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 278
she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 280
"I had meant to have dancing," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 281
For the young people could not talk.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 282
And why should they?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 285
They would solidify young.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 286
They would be good beyond measure to the people on the estate, but alone, perhaps, rather dull.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 287
"What a pity!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 288
she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 289
"I had hoped to have dancing."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 290
It was so extraordinarily nice of them to have come!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 291
But talk of dancing!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 292
The rooms were packed.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 293
There was old Aunt Helena in her shawl.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 294
Alas, she must leave them--Lord Gayton and Nancy Blow.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 295
There was old Miss Parry, her aunt.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 296
For Miss Helena Parry was not dead: Miss Parry was alive.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 297
She was past eighty.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 298
She ascended staircases slowly with a stick.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 299
She was placed in a chair (Richard had seen to it).
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 300
People who had known Burma in the 'seventies were always led up to her.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 301
Where had Peter got to?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 302
They used to be such friends.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 304
"Come and talk to Aunt Helena about Burma," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 305
And yet he had not had a word with her all the evening!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 307
"Peter Walsh," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 308
That meant nothing.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 309
Clarissa had asked her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 310
It was tiring; it was noisy; but Clarissa had asked her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 311
So she had come.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 312
It was a pity that they lived in London--Richard and Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 313
If only for Clarissa's health it would have been better to live in the country.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 314
But Clarissa had always been fond of society.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 315
"He has been in Burma," said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 316
Ah.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 318
(Clarissa must speak to Lady Bruton.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 320
She remembered him now.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 322
"Richard so much enjoyed his lunch party," said Clarissa to Lady Bruton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 323
"Richard was the greatest possible help," Lady Bruton replied.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 324
"He helped me to write a letter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 325
And how are you?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 326
"Oh, perfectly well!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 327
said Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 328
(Lady Bruton detested illness in the wives of politicians.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 329
"And there's Peter Walsh!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 330
unit 331
She had lots of fine qualities; but they had nothing in common--she and Clarissa.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 333
He had lost his chance of the Cabinet).
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 334
"There's Peter Walsh!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 336
Wonderful old lady!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 340
She was an old woman now, not good for much.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 344
To be not English even among the dead--no, no!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 345
Impossible!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 346
But was it Lady Bruton (whom she used to know)?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 347
Was it Peter Walsh grown grey?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 348
Lady Rosseter asked herself (who had been Sally Seton).
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 349
unit 350
Never should she forget running along the passage naked, and being sent for by Miss Parry!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 351
And Clarissa!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 352
oh Clarissa!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 353
Sally caught her by the arm.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 354
Clarissa stopped beside them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 355
"But I can't stay," she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 356
"I shall come later.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 357
Wait," she said, looking at Peter and Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 358
They must wait, she meant, until all these people had gone.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 361
But everybody forgave her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 363
But everybody adored her (except perhaps Papa).
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 364
It was her warmth; her vitality--she would paint, she would write.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 367
Vulgar men did, she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 369
And she had five boys!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 370
She and Peter had settled down together.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 371
They were talking: it seemed so familiar--that they should be talking.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 372
They would discuss the past.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 374
A part of this Sally must always be; Peter must always be.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 375
But she must leave them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 376
There were the Bradshaws, whom she disliked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 378
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 379
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 380
But Lady Bradshaw anticipated her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 381
"We are shockingly late, dear Mrs. Dalloway, we hardly dared to come in," she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 383
unit 384
Why did the sight of him, talking to Richard, curl her up?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 385
He looked what he was, a great doctor.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 386
A man absolutely at the head of his profession, very powerful, rather worn.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 388
He had to decide questions of appalling difficulty.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 389
Yet--what she felt was, one wouldn't like Sir William to see one unhappy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 390
No; not that man.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 391
"How is your son at Eton?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 392
she asked Lady Bradshaw.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 393
He had just missed his eleven, said Lady Bradshaw, because of the mumps.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 395
Clarissa looked at Sir William, talking to Richard.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 396
He did not look like a boy--not in the least like a boy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 397
She had once gone with some one to ask his advice.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 398
He had been perfectly right; extremely sensible.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 399
But Heavens--what a relief to get out to the street again!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 400
There was some poor wretch sobbing, she remembered, in the waiting-room.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 401
But she did not know what it was--about Sir William; what exactly she disliked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 402
Only Richard agreed with her, "didn't like his taste, didn't like his smell."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 403
But he was extraordinarily able.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 404
They were talking about this Bill.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 405
Some case, Sir William was mentioning, lowering his voice.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 406
It had its bearing upon what he was saying about the deferred effects of shell shock.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 2 days ago
unit 407
There must be some provision in the Bill.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 409
A young man (that is what Sir William is telling Mr. Dalloway) had killed himself.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 410
He had been in the army."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 411
Oh!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 412
thought Clarissa, in the middle of my party, here's death, she thought.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 413
She went on, into the little room where the Prime Minister had gone with Lady Bruton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 414
Perhaps there was somebody there.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 415
But there was nobody.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 417
They had been talking about India.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 418
There was nobody.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 419
The party's splendour fell to the floor, so strange it was to come in alone in her finery.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 420
What business had the Bradshaws to talk of death at her party?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 421
A young man had killed himself.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 422
And they talked of it at her party--the Bradshaws, talked of death.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 423
He had killed himself--but how?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 425
He had thrown himself from a window.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 426
Up had flashed the ground; through him, blundering, bruising, went the rusty spikes.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 427
There he lay with a thud, thud, thud in his brain, and then a suffocation of blackness.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 428
So she saw it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 429
But why had he done it?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 430
And the Bradshaws talked of it at her party!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 431
She had once thrown a shilling into the Serpentine, never anything more.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 432
But he had flung it away.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 434
They (all day she had been thinking of Bourton, of Peter, of Sally), they would grow old.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 436
This he had preserved.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 437
Death was defiance.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 439
There was an embrace in death.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 440
But this young man who had killed himself--had he plunged holding his treasure?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 442
Or there were the poets and thinkers.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 446
But that young man had killed himself.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 447
Somehow it was her disaster--her disgrace.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 449
She had schemed; she had pilfered.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 450
She was never wholly admirable.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 451
She had wanted success.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 452
Lady Bexborough and the rest of it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 453
And once she had walked on the terrace at Bourton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 454
It was due to Richard; she had never been so happy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week ago
unit 455
Nothing could be slow enough; nothing last too long.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 14 hours ago
unit 458
She walked to the window.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 460
She parted the curtains; she looked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 461
Oh, but how surprising!--in the room opposite the old lady stared straight at her!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 462
She was going to bed.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 463
And the sky.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 464
unit 465
But there it was--ashen pale, raced over quickly by tapering vast clouds.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 466
It was new to her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 467
The wind must have risen.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 468
She was going to bed, in the room opposite.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 469
unit 470
Could she see her?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 472
She pulled the blind now.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 473
The clock began striking.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 475
There!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 476
the old lady had put out her light!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 478
She must go back to them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 479
But what an extraordinary night!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 480
She felt somehow very like him--the young man who had killed himself.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 481
She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 482
The clock was striking.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 483
The leaden circles dissolved in the air.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 484
He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 485
But she must go back.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 486
She must assemble.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 487
She must find Sally and Peter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 488
And she came in from the little room.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 4 hours ago
unit 489
"But where is Clarissa?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 490
said Peter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 491
He was sitting on the sofa with Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 492
(After all these years he really could not call her "Lady Rosseter.")
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 493
"Where's the woman gone to?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 494
he asked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 495
"Where's Clarissa?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 497
She was with them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 498
Yet there was Richard Dalloway not in the Cabinet.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 499
He hadn't been a success, Sally supposed?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 500
For herself, she scarcely ever read the papers.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 501
She sometimes saw his name mentioned.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 503
She had done things too!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 504
"I have five sons!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 505
she told him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 506
Lord, Lord, what a change had come over her!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 507
the softness of motherhood; its egotism too.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 7 hours ago
unit 510
Heavens, he had wept!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 16 hours ago
unit 513
She had called Richard "Wickham."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 514
Why not call Richard "Wickham"?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 515
Clarissa had flared up!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 519
In those days he was to write.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 520
"Have you written?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 521
she asked him, spreading her hand, her firm and shapely hand, on her knee in a way he recalled.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 522
"Not a word!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 3 hours ago
unit 523
said Peter Walsh, and she laughed.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 16 hours ago
unit 524
She was still attractive, still a personage, Sally Seton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 16 hours ago
unit 525
But who was this Rosseter?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 16 hours ago
unit 526
He wore two camellias on his wedding day--that was all Peter knew of him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 14 hours ago
unit 527
"They have myriads of servants, miles of conservatories," Clarissa wrote; something like that.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 14 hours ago
unit 528
Sally owned it with a shout of laughter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 14 hours ago
unit 530
And Sally used to be in rags and tatters.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 14 hours ago
unit 533
unit 535
But that was all a thing of the past--all over now, she said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 536
And Mr. Parry was dead; and Miss Parry was still alive.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 537
Never had he had such a shock in his life!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 538
said Peter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 539
He had been quite certain she was dead.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 540
And the marriage had been, Sally supposed, a success?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 542
unit 543
Oh how much nicer to be in the country and do what she liked!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 544
She could hear her poor dog howling, Elizabeth was certain.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 545
She was not a bit like Clarissa, Peter Walsh said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 546
"Oh, Clarissa!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 547
said Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 548
What Sally felt was simply this.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 549
She had owed Clarissa an enormous amount.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 8 hours ago
unit 551
But--did Peter understand?--she lacked something.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 552
Lacked what was it?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 553
She had charm; she had extraordinary charm.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 554
But to be frank (and she felt that Peter was an old friend, a real friend--did absence matter?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 555
did distance matter?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 557
a sportsman, a man who cared only for dogs.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 558
Literally, when he came into the room he smelt of the stables.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 559
And then all this?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 560
She waved her hand.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 16 hours ago
unit 562
unit 563
the admirable Hugh!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 564
"And what does he do?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 565
she asked Peter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 566
He blacked the King's boots or counted bottles at Windsor, Peter told her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 567
Peter kept his sharp tongue still!
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 3 hours ago
unit 568
But Sally must be frank, Peter said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 569
That kiss now, Hugh's.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 570
On the lips, she assured him, in the smoking-room one evening.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 571
She went straight to Clarissa in a rage.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 572
Hugh didn't do such things!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 573
Clarissa said, the admirable Hugh!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 574
unit 575
Perfect!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 576
And had he children?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 577
"Everybody in the room has six sons at Eton," Peter told her, except himself.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 578
He, thank God, had none.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 579
No sons, no daughters, no wife.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 580
Well, he didn't seem to mind, said Sally.
2 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 1 hour ago
unit 581
He looked younger, she thought, than any of them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 583
Sally wondered; what did he mean?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 584
and how odd it was to know him and yet not know a single thing that had happened to him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 585
And did he say it out of pride?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 587
But he must stay with them for weeks and weeks.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 1 hour ago
unit 588
Of course he would; he would love to stay with them, and that was how it came out.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 589
All these years the Dalloways had never been once.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 590
Time after time they had asked them.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 591
Clarissa (for it was Clarissa of course) would not come.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 592
For, said Sally, Clarissa was at heart a snob--one had to admit it, a snob.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 593
And it was that that was between them, she was convinced.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 16 hours ago
unit 594
unit 595
Every penny they had he had earned.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 14 hours ago
unit 596
As a little boy (her voice trembled) he had carried great sacks.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 14 hours ago
unit 598
Now all that Clarissa had escaped, unmaternal as she was.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 599
A snob was she?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 600
Yes, in many ways.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 601
Where was she, all this time?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 602
It was getting late.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 604
So I just came without an invitation.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 605
But," she whispered, "tell me, do.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 606
Who is this?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 607
It was Mrs. Hilbery, looking for the door.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 608
For how late it was getting!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 610
Did they know, she asked, that they were surrounded by an enchanted garden?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 611
Lights and trees and wonderful gleaming lakes and the sky.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 612
Just a few fairy lamps, Clarissa Dalloway had said, in the back garden!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 613
But she was a magician!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 614
It was a park.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 615
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 616
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 617
.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 16 hours ago
unit 619
But there were so many doors, such unexpected places, she could not find her way.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 620
"Old Mrs. Hilbery," said Peter; but who was that?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 621
that lady standing by the curtain all the evening, without speaking?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 622
He knew her face; connected her with Bourton.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 623
Surely she used to cut up underclothes at the large table in the window?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 624
Davidson, was that her name?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 625
"Oh, that is Ellie Henderson," said Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 626
Clarissa was really very hard on her.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 627
She was a cousin, very poor.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 628
Clarissa was hard on people.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 629
She was rather, said Peter.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 632
They were young; that was it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 633
Clarissa was pure-hearted; that was it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 634
Peter would think her sentimental.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 635
So she was.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 636
For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying--what one felt.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 637
Cleverness was silly.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 638
One must say simply what one felt.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 639
"But I do not know," said Peter Walsh, "what I feel."
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 640
Poor Peter, thought Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 641
Why did not Clarissa come and talk to them?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 642
That was what he was longing for.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 643
She knew it.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 644
All the time he was thinking only of Clarissa, and was fidgeting with his knife.
2 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 645
He had not found life simple, Peter said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 646
His relations with Clarissa had not been simple.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 647
It had spoilt his life, he said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 648
(They had been so intimate--he and Sally Seton, it was absurd not to say it.)
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 649
One could not be in love twice, he said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 650
And what could she say?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 652
He must come and stay with them in Manchester.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 653
That is all very true, he said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 654
All very true.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 656
And Clarissa had cared for him more than she had ever cared for Richard.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 657
Sally was positive of that.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 658
"No, no, no!"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 659
said Peter (Sally should not have said that--she went too far).
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 661
Who was he talking to?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 662
Sally asked, that very distinguished-looking man?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 663
unit 664
But Peter did not know.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 665
He did not like his looks, he said, probably a Cabinet Minister.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 666
Of them all, Richard seemed to him the best, he said--the most disinterested.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 667
"But what has he done?"
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 668
Sally asked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 669
Public work, she supposed.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 670
And were they happy together?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 672
she asked.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 673
Are we not all prisoners?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 676
But no; he did not like cabbages; he preferred human beings, Peter said.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 677
Indeed, the young are beautiful, Sally said, watching Elizabeth cross the room.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 678
How unlike Clarissa at her age!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 679
Could he make anything of her?
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 680
She would not open her lips.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 681
Not much, not yet, Peter admitted.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 682
She was like a lily, Sally said, a lily by the side of a pool.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 683
But Peter did not agree that we know nothing.
1 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 684
We know everything, he said; at least he did.
1 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 hours ago
unit 686
"That they're damnable humbugs," said Peter, looking at them casually.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 687
He made Sally laugh.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 688
But Sir William Bradshaw stopped at the door to look at a picture.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 689
He looked in the corner for the engraver's name.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 690
His wife looked too.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 691
Sir William Bradshaw was so interested in art.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 692
When one was young, said Peter, one was too much excited to know people.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 hours ago
unit 694
No, that is true, said Sally.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 695
She felt more deeply, more passionately, every year.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 697
There was some one in India.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 698
He would like to tell Sally about her.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 699
He would like Sally to know her.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 700
She was married, he said.
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unit 701
She had two small children.
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unit 703
There's Elizabeth, he said, she feels not half what we feel, not yet.
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unit 705
She could feel it by the way Elizabeth went to her father.
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unit 708
Elizabeth had felt him looking at her as she talked to Willie Titcomb.
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unit 712
And he had not meant to tell her, but he could not help telling her.
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unit 713
unit 714
and it was his daughter!
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unit 715
That did make her happy.
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unit 716
But her poor dog was howling.
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unit 717
"Richard has improved.
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unit 718
You are right," said Sally.
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unit 719
"I shall go and talk to him.
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unit 720
I shall say goodnight.
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unit 722
"I will come," said Peter, but he sat on for a moment.
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unit 723
What is this terror?
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unit 724
what is this ecstasy?
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unit 725
he thought to himself.
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unit 726
What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement?
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unit 727
It is Clarissa, he said.
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unit 728
For there she was.
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unit 729
THE END
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Part VIII.
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 wandering will-o'-the-wisp, 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.
"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