Mrs. Dalloway in Bond Street

by Virginia Woolf

　　Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the gloves herself.

　　Big Ben was striking as she stepped out into the street. It was eleveno'clock and the unused hour was fresh as if issued to children on abeach. But there was something solemn in the deliberate swing of therepeated strokes; something stirring in the murmur of wheels and theshuffle of footsteps.

　　No doubt they were not all bound on errands of happiness. There is muchmore to be said about us than that we walk the streets of Westminster.Big Ben too is nothing but steel rods consumed by rust were it not forthe care of H.M.'s Office of Works. Only for Mrs Dalloway the moment wascomplete; for Mrs Dalloway June was fresh. A happy childhood--and it wasnot to his daughters only that Justin Parry had seemed a fine fellow(weak of course on the Bench); flowers at evening, smoke rising; the cawof rooks falling from ever so high, down down through the October air -there is nothing to take the place of childhood. A leaf of mint brings itback: or a cup with a blue ring.

　　Poor little wretches, she sighed, and pressed forward. Oh, right underthe horses' noses, you little demon! and there she was left on the kerbstretching her hand out, while Jimmy Dawes grinned on the further side.

　　A charming woman, poised, eager, strangely white-haired for her pinkcheeks, so Scope Purvis, C.C.B., saw her as he hurried to his office.She stiffened a little, waiting for burthen's van to pass. Big Ben struckthe tenth; struck the eleventh stroke. The leaden circles dissolved inthe air. Pride held her erect, inheriting, handing on, acquainted withdiscipline and with suffering. How people suffered, how they suffered,she thought, thinking of Mrs Foxcroft at the Embassy last night deckedwith jewels, eating her heart out, because that nice boy was dead, andnow the old Manor House (Durtnall's van passed) must go to a cousin.

　　'Good morning to you!' said Hugh Whitbread raising his hat ratherextravagantly by the china shop, for they had known each other aschildren. 'Where are you off to?'

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

　　'We've just come up,' said Hugh Whitbread. 'Unfortunately to see doctors.'

　　'Milly?' said Mrs Dalloway, instantly compassionate.

　　'Out of sorts,' said Hugh Whitbread. 'That sort of thing. Dick all right?'

　　'First rate!' said Clarissa.

　　Of course, she thought, walking on, Milly is about my age--fifty,fifty-two. So it is probably that, Hugh's manner had said so, said itperfectly--dear old Hugh, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering withamusement, with gratitude, with emotion, how shy, like a brother--onewould rather die than speak to one's brother--Hugh had always been, whenhe was at Oxford, and came over, and perhaps one of them (drat thething!) couldn't ride. How then could women sit in Parliament? How couldthey do things with men? For there is this extra-ordinarily deepinstinct, something inside one; you can't get over it; it's no usetrying; and men like Hugh respect it without our saying it, which is whatone loves, thought Clarissa, in dear old Hugh.

　　She had passed through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of the emptyroad with its thin trees Victoria's white mound, Victoria's billowingmotherliness, amplitude and homeliness, always ridiculous, yet howsublime, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering Kensington Gardens and the oldlady in horn spectacles and being told by Nanny to stop dead still andbow to the Queen. The flag flew above the Palace. The King and Queen wereback then. Dick had met her at lunch the other day--a thoroughly nicewoman. It matters so much to the poor, thought Clarissa, and to thesoldiers. A man in bronze stood heroically on a pedestal with a gun onher left hand side--the South African war. It matters, thought MrsDalloway walking towards Buckingham Palace. There it stood four-square,in the broad sunshine, uncompromising, plain. But it was character, shethought; something inborn in the race; what Indians respected. The Queenwent to hospitals, opened bazaars--the Queen of England, thoughtClarissa, looking at the Palace. Already at this hour a motor car passedout at the gates; soldiers saluted; the gates were shut. And Clarissa,crossing the road, entered the Park, holding herself upright.

　　June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Westminsterwith mottled breasts gave suck to their young. Quite respectable girlslay stretched on the grass. An elderly man, stooping very stiffly, pickedup a crumpled paper, spread it out flat and flung it away. How horrible!Last night at the Embassy Sir Dighton had said, 'If 1 want a fellow tohold my horse, I have only to put up my hand.' But the religious questionis far more serious than the economic, Sir Dighton had said, which shethought extraordinarily interesting, from a man like Sir Dighton. 'Oh,the country will never know what it has lost,' he had said, talking ofhis own accord, about dear Jack Stewart.

　　She mounted the little hill lightly. The air stirred with energy.Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Piccadilly andArlington Street and the Mall seemed to chafe the very air in the Parkand lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, upon waves of that divinevitality which Clarissa loved. To ride; to dance; she had adored allthat. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what todo with one's life, for young people were amazingly priggish--oh, thethings one had said! But one had conviction. Middle age is the devil.People like Jack'll never know that, she thought; for he never oncethought of death, never, they said, knew he was dying. And now can nevermourn--how did it go?--a head grown grey . . . From the contagion of theworld's slow stain, . . . have drunk their cup a round or twobefore. . . . From the contagion of the world's slow stain!She held herself upright.

　　But how jack would have shouted! Quoting Shelley, in Piccadilly, 'Youwant a pin,' he would have said. He hated frumps. 'My God Clarissa! MyGod Clarissa!'--she could hear him now at the Devonshire House party,about poor Sylvia Hunt in her amber necklace and that dowdy old silk.Clarissa held herself upright for she had spoken aloud and now she was inPiccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns, and thebalconies; passing club windows full of newspapers; passing old LadyBurdett-Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; andDevonshire House, without its gilt leopards; and Claridge's, where shemust remember Dick wanted her to leave a card on Mrs Jepson or she wouldbe gone. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St James'sPalace; like a child's game with bricks; and now--she had passed BondStreet--she was by Hatchard's book shop. The stream was endless--endlessendless. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham--what was it? What a duck, shethought, looking at the frontispiece of some book of memoirs spread widein the bow window, Sir Joshua perhaps or Romney; arch, bright, demure;the sort of girl--like her own Elizabeth--the only real sort of girl.And there was that absurd book, Soapy Sponge, which Jim used to quoteby the yard; and Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew them by heart. Phil andshe had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and Dick had said straightout at dinner that night that he had never heard of her. Really, she hadmarried him for that! He had never read Shakespeare! There must be somelittle cheap book she could buy for Milly--Cranford of course!Was there ever anything so enchanting as the cow in petticoats? If onlypeople had that sort of humour, that sort of self-respect now, thoughtClarissa, for she remembered the broad pages; the sentences ending; thecharacters--how one talked about them as if they were real. For all thegreat things one must go to the past, she thought. From the contagion ofthe world's slow stain . . . Fear no more the heat o' the sun. . . .And now can never mourn, can never mourn, she repeated, her eyes strayingover the window; for it ran in her head; the test of great poetry; themoderns had never written anything one wanted to read about death, shethought; and turned.

　　Omnibuses joined motor cars; motor cars vans; vans taxicabs, taxicabsmotor cars--here was an open motor car with a girl, alone. Up till four,her feet tingling, I know, thought Clarissa, for the girl looked washedout, half asleep, in the corner of the car after the dance. And anothercar came; and another. No! No! No! Clarissa smiled good-naturedly. Thefat lady had taken every sort of trouble, but diamonds! orchids! atthis hour of the morning! No! No! No! The excellent policeman would,when the time came, hold up his hand. Another motor car passed.How utterly unattractive! Why should a girl of that age paint black roundher eyes? And a young man, with a girl, at this hour, when the country--The admirable policeman raised his hand and Clarissa acknowledging hissway, taking her time, crossed, walked towards Bond Street; saw thenarrow crooked street, the yellow banners; the thick notched telegraphwires stretched across the sky.

　　A hundred years ago her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry, who ranaway with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. Down BondStreet the Parrys had walked for a hundred years, and might have met theDalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going up. Her father got hisclothes from Hill's. There was a roll of cloth in the window,and here just one jar on a black table, incredibly expensive;like the thick pink salmon on the ice block at the fish monger's. Thejewels were exquisite--pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish, shethought, and chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches whichhad been worn on sea-green satin by ladies with high head-dresses. But nogood looking! One must economise. She must go on past the picturedealer's where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people hadthrown confetti--pink and blue--for a joke. If you had lived withpictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa,passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.

　　The river of Bond Street was clogged. There, like a Queen at atournament, raised, regal, was Lady Bexborough. She sat in her carriage,upright, alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose ather wrist. She was in black, quite shabby, yet, thought Clarissa, howextraordinarily it tells, breeding, self-respect, never saying a word toomuch or letting people gossip; an astonishing friend; no one can pick ahole in her after all these years, and now, there she is, thoughtClarissa, passing the Countess who waited powdered, perfectly still, andClarissa would have given anything to be like that, the mistress ofClarefield, talking politics, like a man. But she never goes anywhere,thought Clarissa, and it's quite useless to ask her, and the carriagewent on and Lady Bexborough was borne past like a Queen at a tournament,though she had nothing to live for and the old man is failing and theysay she is sick of it all, thought Clarissa and the tears actually roseto her eyes as she entered the shop.

　　'Good morning,' said Clarissa in her charming voice. 'Gloves,' she saidwith her exquisite friendliness and putting her bag on the counter began,very slowly, to undo the buttons. 'White gloves,' she said. 'Above theelbow,' and she looked straight into the shop-woman's face--but this wasnot the girl she remembered? She looked quite old. 'These really don'tfit,' said Clarissa. The shop-girl looked at them. 'Madame wearsbracelets?' Clarissa spread out her fingers. 'Perhaps it's my rings.' Andthe girl took the grey gloves with her to the end of the counter.

　　Yes, thought Clarissa, if it's the girl I remember, she's twenty yearsolder. . .. There was only one other customer, sitting sideways at thecounter, her elbow poised, her bare hand drooping, vacant; like a figureon a Japanese fan, thought Clarissa, too vacant perhaps, yet some menwould adore her. The lady shook her head sadly. Again the gloves were toolarge. She turned round the glass. 'Above the wrist,' she reproached thegrey-headed woman; who looked and agreed.

　　They waited; a clock ticked; Bond Street hummed, dulled, distant; thewoman went away holding gloves. 'Above the wrist,' said the lady,mournfully, raising her voice. And she would have to order chairs, ices,flowers, and cloak-room tickets, thought Clarissa. The people she didn'twant would come; the others wouldn't. She would stand by the door. Theysold stockings--silk stockings. A lady is known by her gloves and hershoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silkstockings quivering silver she looked at the lady, sloping shouldered,her hand drooping, her bag slipping, her eyes vacantly on the floor. Itwould be intolerable if dowdy women came to her party! Would one haveliked Keats if he had worn red socks? Oh, at last--she drew into thecounter and it flashed into her mind:

　　'Do you remember before the war you had gloves with pearl buttons?'

　　'French gloves, Madame?'

　　'Yes, they were French,' said Clarissa. The other lady rose very sadlyand took her bag, and looked at the gloves on the counter. But they wereall too large--always too large at the wrist.

　　'With pearl buttons,' said the shop-girl, who looked ever so much older.She split the lengths of tissue paper apart on the counter. With pearlbuttons, thought Clarissa, perfectly simple--how French!

　　'Madame's hands are so slender,' said the shop-girl, drawing the glovefirmly, smoothly, down over her rings. And Clarissa looked at her arm inthe looking-glass. The glove hardly came to the elbow. Were there othershalf an inch longer? Still it seemed tiresome to bother her perhaps theone day in the month, thought Clarissa, when it's an agony to stand. 'Oh,don't bother,' she said. But the gloves were brought.

　　'Don't you get fearfully tired,' she said in her charming voice,'standing? When d'you get your holiday?'

　　'In September, Madame, when we're not so busy.'

　　When we're in the country thought Clarissa. Or shooting. She has afortnight at Brighton. In some stuffy lodging. The landlady takes thesugar. Nothing would be easier than to send her to Mrs Lumley's right inthe country (and it was on the tip of her tongue). But then sheremembered how on their honeymoon Dick had shown her the folly of givingimpulsively. It was much more important, he said, to get trade withChina. Of course he was right. And she could feel the girl wouldn't liketo be given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Sellinggloves was her job. She had her own sorrows quite separate, 'and now cannever mourn, can never mourn,' the words ran in her head. 'From thecontagion of the world's slow stain,' thought Clarissa holding her armstiff, for there are moments when it seems utterly futile (the glove wasdrawn off leaving her arm flecked with powder)--simply one doesn'tbelieve, thought Clarissa, any more in God.

　　The traffic suddenly roared; the silk stockings brightened. A customercame in.

　　'White gloves,' she said, with some ring in her voice that Clarissaremembered.

　　It used, thought Clarissa, to be so simple. Down down through the aircame the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, hundreds of years ago, theyew hedges looked so lovely with the diamond webs in the mist beforeearly church. But if Dick were to die tomorrow, as for believing inGod--no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like LadyBexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in herhand--Roden, her favourite, killed--she would go on. But why, if onedoesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove inher hand. The girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.

　　'Thirty shillings,' said the shop-woman. 'No, pardon me Madame,thirty-five. The French gloves are more.'

　　For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa.

　　And then the other customer took a glove, tugged it, and it split.

　　'There!' she exclaimed .

　　'A fault of the skin,' said the grey-headed woman hurriedly. 'Sometimes adrop of acid in tanning. Try this pair, Madame.'

　　'But it's an awful swindle to ask two pound ten!'

　　Clarissa looked at the lady; the lady looked at Clarissa.

　　'Gloves have never been quite so reliable since the war,' said theshop-girl, apologising, to Clarissa.

　　But where had she seen the other lady?--elderly, with a frill under herchin; wearing a black ribbon for gold eyeglasses; sensual, clever, like aSargent drawing. How one can tell from a voice when people are in thehabit, thought Clarissa, of making other people--'It's a shade tootight,' she said--obey. The shop-woman went off again. Clarissa was leftwaiting. Fear no more she repeated, playing her finger on the counter.Fear no more the heat o' the sun. Fear no more she repeated. There werelittle brown spots on her arm. And the girl crawled like a snail. Thouthy worldly task hast done. Thousands of young men had died that thingsmight go on. At last! Half an rich above the elbow; pearl buttons; fiveand a quarter. My dear slow coach, thought Clarissa, do you think I cansit here the whole morning? Now you'll take twenty-five minutes to bringme my change!

　　There was a violent explosion in the street outside. The shop-womencowered behind the counters. But Clarissa, sitting very upright, smiledat the other lady. 'Miss Anstruther!' she exclaimed.