Mr Dalloway

by Robin Lippincott

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said (though she already had the book at school). But what was it that her father had given to her mother? Elizabeth wondered as she searched for the title of the book in her mother’s hands. Something frivolous, no doubt. Ah, yes, there it was—a modern novel. Not a classic; not poetry, not history, not science, nor even biography; but a modern novel. That was her mother. Miss Kilman had been right.

  Time did not stand still, Clarissa thought as she listened to Big Ben beat five bold strokes against the grey afternoon, a death knell tolling against all of them, there, in the drawing room, as she looked at her own daughter—how she had grown—and at her husband, remembering that day at Bourton over thirty years ago when they had first met. But then suddenly she remembered: Peter Walsh had wired! Their scenes at Bourton raced through her mind, with the accompanying emotions—by the fountain at three on that hot afternoon (I am too old for this excitement, she thought). “Did you see the messages?” she asked Richard now. “There was a wire from Peter Walsh in India—to congratulate us.”

  Richard smiled, for he had always liked Peter. Even at Bourton with the terrible scenes, he had always liked Peter Walsh. And why not? For Clarissa had chosen him and not Peter. “Most kind of Peter,” he said.

  It was, too, Clarissa thought. Most kind of Peter Walsh. And that was Peter—always kind; they had known each other, what? thirty-two, thirty-three years now. All that time; yet they had spent most of it separated. Oh, but his letters were dull stuff indeed; she could scarcely read them.

  “Is everyone ready for the party tonight?” Mr. Dalloway asked, for there was his check-list which said to ask if everyone was ready.

  But there was no immediate reply. Elizabeth sat for a moment, not responding; then she nodded. Her mother looked at her. “Do you have your dress picked out?” she asked.

  “Yes, the green one,” Elizabeth answered.

  Clarissa smiled, for Elizabeth looked marvelous in green; it was her colour. “Yes,” she answered her husband at last. “But first I must get some rest.”

  He nodded. He knew: she was delicate; fragile; the doctor had ordered it for her—rest.

  And so the conversation slowly broke down, so all communication gradually ceased until the parlor was quiet and empty, the three conversants having retired to their own rooms, where they would rest.

  (An empty room is a strange thing, Lucy thought, as she came in and out of the parlor, clearing the tea; as if ghosts or shadows of the inhabitants of just moments ago somehow remained—Mr. Dalloway sitting here—there was his impression in the sofa; Elizabeth, there....)

  But he was rested (Richard Dalloway thought, standing in the middle of his room and hearing Clarissa settle in just below). Indeed, he had rested most of the afternoon. What would he do? And then he remembered: Robbie had been there; Wilkins had told him amidst everything. Or rather, Wilkins had said that “a Mr. Frank Faber” had called (and Clarissa hadn’t seemed to notice or hadn’t heard). And so he had guessed, assumed it was Robbie and avoided going down, but he hadn’t had time to think much of it (though he had felt a great deal), until now. And indeed it must have been Robbie—who worked at Faber the publisher’s. It was a signal; he knew no Frank Faber.

  But what did it mean, Robbie coming to his house? Coming to his and Clarissa’s house in the afternoon; coming to his house at any time for that matter, but especially this afternoon—with the party, and with Elizabeth here? Had something happened? Or was Robbie up to no good again? Had he fallen off? For he knew not to come here; never; they had discussed it. I will have to speak with him immediately, Mr. Dalloway thought (both irritated by and concerned about Robbie’s behaviour). But how? It was too late in the day to send a letter, for it wouldn’t arrive until the following morning, and he shouldn’t risk anything, especially now. He would have to telephone, that was all there was to it. Or perhaps he should try to put it out of his mind: he would look over his check-list for the party, to see that things were more or less in order. He would think about the biography he was to write of Lady Bruton’s family. He would read; he would make notes.

  Lady Bruton’s family, he thought now, reaching for the file of papers he kept in a drawer of the small desk at his bedside for occasions such as this, when he felt like working. “Millicent Bruton,” he read. (How he admired her: she had pedigree; passion....) There was the picture of the General—Sir Talbot Moore, Lady Bruton’s great grandfather—holding the scroll. (He and Robbie had once discerned that Robbie’s ancestors— which included some Moores—might have been mixed with Lady Bruton’s.) Admirals, administrators—the men in Lady Bruton’s family had been men of action. No, he thought (putting the file aside), I haven’t a mind for this just now. It was not safe, he decided, to put the fact of “Mr. Faber’s” appearance at his house out of his mind. I must act, he thought. I must telephone Robbie.

  He opened the door to his room and listened for sounds in the house: nothing from Clarissa’s room beneath him; nor could he hear any noises in the hall. So he began creeping down the stairs (which creaked as he went), slowly, until—just as he had reached the half way point between the second and first floors—there was Mrs. Walker carrying a wicker basket filled with folded linen napkins. He flattened himself against the wall; she opened the door to the basement (from which he could now hear noises—voices; shuffling about; china being stacked); she began whistling as she descended—the thunder of feet on wooden stairs. He listened again—no, nothing. Then he proceeded down into the hall.

  There was the telephone (looking like a black bug, he thought: such was his mission; beetle-like). He knew Robbie’s number by heart; he dialed it (all the while keeping one ear cocked for intruders). Robbie’s telephone rang (Richard could picture it—black, sitting on a table in the parlor. He had been there when it had rung). So it rang. So he pictured it ringing—four, five, six.... (But Robbie was not there, or was not answering.) He hung up. What to do?

  He slipped back up the stairs and into his room. He closed the door. He stood: what to do? Robbie could be a nuisance. And yet (he thought, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding his head in his hands), and yet—hadn’t it been worth all of the trouble? That was the question one should always put to oneself, he had learned long ago, in the House, fighting for this or that resolution: whether or not something was worth the trouble.

  Now he eased himself fully onto the bed in a supine position, his head resting in his clasped hands as he closed his eyes. He would not sleep, he thought; just think. And dream. A picture of Robbie formed in his mind. Dark, handsome, elegant—that was Robbie. He hadn’t changed much in the ten years they had known one another. No; Robbie wasn’t aging at all as far as he could see; he was still boyish.

  Then, suddenly, there was Robbie as he had been ten years ago, sitting in that dark room at Oxford where they had first met (listening intently; his arms crossed; one thin leg folded elegantly over the other). At a reunion wasn’t it?—Oxfordians were always reuniting for some reason or other. Or was it a meeting? Anyway, they had met there, surrounded by classmates, alumni—a perfectly proper, natural setting, and then they had just happened to find themselves seated next to one another at lunch. And so as one did in polite society, they had struck up a conversation; only it had soared. So much so that by the end of the day, a Saturday, when the reunion or meeting or whatever it was was over, they had walked to the station and taken the train back in to London, sitting together and talking the entire time.

  And what was it they had talked about? Richard wondered now. He couldn’t remember: had it been a substantial, meaningful conversation, or was it merely drivel; nervous chatter? No, he thought not (for now it was coming back to him): it was about the harms of the Industrial Revolution, the spoiling of the English countryside, which, they agreed, was invaluable—an important part of Britain’s capital and it should be protected; and he had told Robbie about Fellstree, said they would have to go there some time; oh, and the War, of course—the unmistak
able sound of a Zeppelin during the air raids, and how they had both known men who had been killed (Robbie had said that a friend of his parents’, a woman, had been killed in the bombing on Kew); and all the while, as they talked, there were Robbie’s blue eyes, black hair, full mouth, and long, elegant hands, flashing before him; waving at him; beckoning him. Then, amidst this passionate conversation (and he remembered this vividly, so much so that almost the very same shock ran through his body now), then, the train had rocked, and his and Robbie’s legs had touched, had rubbed together for a brief moment, and oh! it was—what?—like a match against flint. And he knew immediately that this was no ordinary encounter. His stomach churned and his mind raced at the physical sensation he was feeling, and he realised that it could very well be his undoing: the fire had been ignited. Robbie had continued talking; he was going on about the beauty of the parks in London (for he had grown up and spent his entire life there and loved London, though he, too, he said, enjoyed the country—they shared those feelings). As Robbie was saying all this, Richard’s mind, reeling with the sensations aroused by that brief touch, his mind flew ahead—to clandestine encounters, Robbie’s pale limbs wrapped around him; to blackmail; to Clarissa leaving him and his having to explain it to Elizabeth; to public embarrassment; humiliation in the House (there it was on the front page of the Times: “Former MP Arrested!”); and finally to imprisonment! He imagined all that. And yet he was helpless; for somehow—and he couldn’t quite say how—Robbie had reminded him of Duncan. He didn’t know what it was exactly; nor did it really matter, he supposed, because there it was: Robbie had reminded him of Duncan and he was now completely in thrall, and there would be no way out but through it.

  (But now, at the sound of Big Ben striking the hour—six? seven?—Richard sat up and looked out the window. The sky was darkening, the blue now drenched with grey.)

  And so through it Richard Dalloway had begun to go, feeling he had no choice, nor any idea at all (though he had many fears) about where it would lead him. It was a journey, an adventure; a terrifying but exciting (especially at his age, he had thought at the time) life-adventure.

  It had started with their meeting for lunch once a month or so: that was simple; innocent; there was nothing wrong with it. If he had the time, he would meet Robbie in a restaurant or a pub somewhere in Bloomsbury, near Robbie’s office; but when he couldn’t get away, which was more often the case, Robbie would come to him, and they would meet, usually at Westminster Arms (for they never met out of doors, at Richard’s insistence, but always at some assigned place; indoors).

  At lunch, Robbie would tell him about his father—what an unusual and extraordinarily sensitive man he was, a wonderful father; how they enjoyed their morning walks together; and that he hoped Richard might meet his father someday. (There was a charming innocence, a naivete, and an ebullience about Robbie in those days. And there were those blue, blue eyes.) A lunch every now and then was harmless enough, he had told himself at the time, only half believing it (for wasn’t it significant, he had asked himself, didn’t it mean something that he never mentioned meeting Robbie or their lunches to Clarissa?).

  Slowly, gradually, the lunches became bi-monthly affairs; then weekly (or even two and three times per week); and the lunches then led to teas: first out at some place or other, some place convenient, but later—as their afternoons together lengthened and the London skies darkened (for now it was winter)—at Robbie’s house in Fitzroy Square, where a bed was never far away; and then.... Then it happened. Then it began—physically, consummately, officially—this thing between them. All of this had been painstakingly slow (or so Robbie had said later), covering a full year’s time, but it was beginning.

  And so it had gone on for years, amazingly enough, running along smoothly, like the best of trains: he was happy with the relationship (if also torn by it); Robbie seemed happy. Over time they grew to know one another intimately; Robbie had even revealed, as he had to no one else, not even to his father, his literary aspirations. There were occasional overnight and weekend outings in the country when these could be arranged—they had managed an idyllic three-day weekend at Fellstree once in late September (and Robbie had loved Fellstree—which only made him that much more desirable to Richard). When both of Robbie’s parents died in the same year and Robbie had to be hospitalised (for he had leaned out of a third-floor window proclaiming himself to be Icarus), Richard was there to help him through it, to console him, an experience which had drawn them even closer (but which, he felt now, had unhinged poor Robbie’s mind; had changed him for ever). As any two people together did, they shared life’s burdens and its joys. And as for Clarissa, (he had explained to himself at the time): she had left their bed (and that had always been terribly dry anyway). And well, as it was said—a man had certain needs. It was not hurting her (he went on reasoning); nor was it in any way harming them or their life together, for it really had nothing whatsoever to do with them; nothing at all. This little thing with Robbie was something else entirely; it was a mere fraction of who he was, a minute (though necessary, he could sometimes admit) part of himself and his life.

  But then, after the death of Mr. and Mrs. Davies, there had been a change, which he had since traced partially to Clarissa having fallen ill (so ill that he was at risk of losing her), and partially to Robbie’s increasing demands upon his time (this after Robbie’s second hospitalisation). For now Robbie was always wanting and asking for more—obviously as a result of losing his parents.

  There was a change, yes, and it frightened him, and he had begun to try to pull back from Robbie a little. Just a bit. But of course Robbie had sensed it, had felt the reins loosening, and then came right out and said that he wouldn’t have it. How red his face had grown, the veins in his slender neck bulging—reminding Richard of swans he had witnessed fighting as a child, for he had never seen Robbie like that: it was horrible. Oh, they had had terrible scenes! He was living on his nerves. For everything he had seen that day on the train, essentially his own end, which had slipped so far from his mind as to have almost disappeared (or so he had thought), now loomed on the horizon and seemed likely; seemed inevitable. He was terrified.

  And it was then that poor Robbie (out of desperation, Richard now understood) had first begun to threaten him—first with suicide; later with blackmail. Which led to more scenes, until finally he had had enough. And so he called Robbie late one night and they met at a bench in Russell Square. It began to rain (he remembered) as they sat there arguing; it began to rain and people walked by and stared at them! That was it, he was saying to Robbie, the gawking passers-by only increasing his anger; it had gotten out of control and he had had it; he couldn’t go on—it was over! It was over (or at least he wanted it to be over, though he soon realised that he was helpless; still in Robbie’s powerful hold). But things only got worse, as Robbie took to lying in wait for him, then approaching him, practically jumping him—once in the Central Lobby!

  “What if someone should see!” he had whispered, completely flustered by this abominable behaviour, this flagrant indiscretion. But that was precisely what Robbie wanted, he had said—that people should see; for he would not be ignored! And then began the telephone calls at home. And the haunting about Dean’s Yard (once, walking home from the theatre at night with Clarissa, he had seen Robbie lurking behind a tree).

  But “I understand,” Clarissa had said, taking his hand. And looking back now (he opened his eyes and glanced about the darkening room), looking back he supposed that he could, somewhat, understand Robbie’s impossible behaviour and forgive him. For Robbie was alone in the world, utterly alone; alone and desperate and vulnerable, and he—Richard Dalloway, since the death of Robbie’s parents—had been his brother; his father; his lover; his—what?—his “everything,” Robbie had said. Yes, he forgave him. And he loved him. And he had thought their problems were over.

  And “I understand,” Clarissa had said, taking his hand, to his complete astonishment. The moment
he had dreaded and feared; the moment that had loomed so large in his mind for years, had finally arrived, as he had somehow known all along that it would. (There had been nothing like this between them in thirty years of marriage. There was Peter Walsh, of course; but that was before they were married; and Clarissa had chosen him. And then there was that girl he had kissed on the boat to South America. But that was circumstantial, almost accidental; confused and meaningless.) And he knew, too, that this moment he had dreaded would be awful—the longest moment of his life (though not the worst). But then it came and went in a flash! In a mere instant it was dispersed. All because Clarissa had taken his hand and said she understood.

  It was a moment which—all the rest of his days—he would never forget. Robbie had followed through on his threat; he had written (“Dear Mrs. Dalloway...”). And what could he possibly do, Richard had wondered at the time. For several days after Robbie threatened to expose him by writing to Clarissa he had actually made sure to be home, claiming that he was ill if necessary, so as to intercept any letter Robbie might send. But then he had come to his senses: he couldn’t do that; it was ridiculous! What other options did he have? (For one must think things through; think clearly, rationally.) Then, if he was home at the time, he would try to get to the late afternoon post before Wilkins did, which had put him through ridiculous scenes—racing back and forth from room to room while sitting with Clarissa (she had even asked him if anything was the matter). He had also considered asking Wilkins to take the post aside and hold it, but he hadn’t been able to fabricate a reason for doing so, and without that he thought it would appear much too suspicious, and he couldn’t have the servants turning against him. So finally he had gone to Robbie one last time and begged him; he actually got down on his knees and cried, and he agreed to meet some of the demands on Robbie’s list (there was that damned notebook!). But no, it was not good enough—Robbie was intractable; he wanted everything; he now said that he wanted nothing less than for Richard to leave his wife. And so the letter was sent; the letter arrived. “Dear Mrs. Dalloway....”