But she hoped there was a cab left unoccupied in the city, Clarissa said (at which Elizabeth laughed), for she imagined many of them were being used up by their guests (or by practically everyone else in London, Richard thought, knowing that there would be quite a convergence on King’s Cross this personally significant and historically important June night).
And so Clarissa imagined them, her party-goers, pouring out into the streets of London—in taxi cabs, on foot, by tube, or in their own motor cars, driving in from the purlieus or from even further out—all of her party-goers emptying out of their houses and being swept up by the momentum and the pull of the party, converging and flowing, all together, swirling around the circles and squares that were the streets of London, and then arriving (but hopefully not colliding, she thought, for the London streets were dangerous), so she imagined them—Lady Hosford, Stella Bowles, Lady Lovejoy (she began going through the guest-list in her mind, pictured it, saw it now on the several sheets of white paper, in her own handwriting, just as she had written it out; she saw the names and checked them off—in her mind), Lord and Lady Lexham, Colonel and Mrs. Garrod, Hugh Whitbread, atone—always alone, for Evelyn was sick (poor Hugh), and Mr. Bowley, Mrs. Hilbery, Lady Mary Maddox, Herbert Ainsty, Mrs. Dakers, Lady Bruton (who did not like her), and Sally, Sally Seton (or what was her name now—Lady Rosseter? Sally, who was supposed to bring her husband this time, for they had not met), and Mrs. Durrant and Clara, Katherine Truelock and Eleanor Gibson (who, someone had told her, were Sapphists, which was nothing to her, for she had known Katherine since they were girls), and Sir Harry, Willie Titcomb, Professor Brierly (he always wore red socks), Prickett Ellis, (but not Ellie Henderson, she thought victoriously, pausing now and trying to remember the other names on the list, for she had not invited Ellie), oh yes, and Ralph Johnson, the Brunners, Miss O’Keefe, Lily Everit, Bob Brinsley, Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, Mrs. Vallance (another Duchess she admired), Jack Renshaw, oh yes, and how could she forget the lovely Sasha Richardson—so she imagined them all, some already there, perhaps, waiting, others poking along, a few even running late and racing (that would be Sally, or at least the old Sally) so as to arrive at King’s Cross Station by 9.30.
The motors of the two taxi cabs hummed in Richard Dalloway’s ears now as they sat waiting for Wilkins to return from telephoning for the third. And the humming became a sort of drone which, as they waited—and while Elizabeth was saying something to Clarissa about school, he wasn’t really listening—lulled him into recalling where he had been and what he had seen: Duncan, hanging there (forty years earlier). And then (he thought, shaking off that memory) there was the matter of Robbie. He would try to telephone him from King’s Cross.
But there was Wilkins coming out the front door, waving to him and then climbing into the taxi cab, surrounded by the flowers, and pale colours were certainly not for him (Lucy thought with a laugh). And then they were off, moving, as Lucy and Mrs. Walker and the three girls waved good-bye and called “See you at King’s Cross!” For they felt as though they were on an adventure.
PART TWO
The Party
Had his idea for the party been grandiose? Richard ad his idea for the party been grandiose ? Richard Dalloway wondered now, standing in a corner but at some distance from the entrance of King’s Cross Station (on a brief errand, he had told Clarissa), now watching his wife as she graciously greeted their guests. (There was Stella Bowles. She had seen him. She waved flirtatiously—talking with Clarissa, whom, or so Clarissa said, she did not like. He waved back.) But it was not the first time he had worried over this question about the party in the past few days; and he supposed it was possible—that his idea was rather grandiose (but it was too late now), for what he wanted to do, his highest goal for the party, besides pleasing Clarissa (for he still had some ambition, some desire to integrate personal and public concerns), was to take a group of people, his and Clarissa’s friends (mostly Clarissa’s, for he had not had much time for friends over the years, what with his duties in the House)—he wanted nothing less than to take Clarissa and Elizabeth and their friends and to bring them out of the drawing rooms and the parlours, out of their houses, out of doors, away from all that artifice, and then—somehow as one, as a party of people—to connect them, en masse, with the natural world, something larger than themselves, something more than merely the who, what, when, where, and how of their meager day-today existences, something bigger and more profound. And that something, he supposed now, was nothing less than the universe itself So yes, maybe he had been—what was that word Blitzer had used?—delusional, that was it; maybe he had been delusional when he first came up with the design for the party—an effect of the previous year’s events on his mind, perhaps? he wondered. But, he thought now, it is not over yet. (He reminded himself that he must remember to talk with Millicent Bruton about her ancestors—now that he had all of the papers from Aldmixton; for he would be occupying his hours in the days and months and years to come with writing the biography of her family.)
And then there was his errand. He had left the crowd to try to telephone Robbie (and to compose himself one last time before the party began in earnest), but again there had been no answer. He could see now that if he was going to get on with the evening at all, he would have to just let it go, to try to put Robbie out of his mind and give himself over wholly to the thing at hand, to the party.
And she did look lovely, Stella Bowles had to admit, seeing Clarissa Dalloway standing there; greeting her guests; nodding her head; smiling; laughing; shaking the hands of some and embracing others; playing the role she loved most and was best known for, that of hostess. Yes, she did look lovely, all in white (dress, hair), with pale pink, above-the-elbow gloves, and a matching pink hat. And that simple strand of pearls. So characteristic, Stella Bowles thought—Clarissa’s all-too-obvious reference to the fact that it was her and Richard’s thirtieth anniversary, for which pearl, she was certain Clarissa would know, was the appropriate gemstone. Whereas because of George’s premature death at age forty-nine (the House, she was convinced, had killed him), she had been deprived of their thirtieth.
But Clarissa Dalloway herself was only aware of the fact that she scarcely had time to think at all, save for the spare, brief moment, amidst greeting people and shaking their hands and saying how long it had been and embracing some and catching this whiff of perfume and that glance at someone’s handsome Spanish shawl or smart new hat from Paris or diamond brooch (“from Bond Street”). Not to mention, she thought now, worrying about Elizabeth, and about the party—how it would go (for a party was an offering after all), and feeling, that though it was Richard who was giving the party, though it had been his idea, its success or failure, she knew—in the end—ultimately rested upon her shoulders.
Now walking back over to join the gathering crowd and properly assume his role as host, Richard Dalloway was asked, again and again, from this group and from that (always good-humouredly) as he made his way, the question of the hour: “What are we doing at King’s Cross Station at nine-thirty in the evening?” To which various other guests would add, looking around the busy station: “Where is the party?” “When does it begin?” “Are we taking a train somewhere?” Though just as many thought that they knew where the party was going and for what purpose, but they would keep Richard Dalloway’s secret.
Like Hugh Whitbread, for example—he knew what was up (as he imagined most of the men did), overhearing the questions put to Richard Dalloway (always in a feminine voice, he thought). For he kept up with things, prided himself on it; he kept up with things and knew both what day this was and the historical significance of it; for he read his morning Times religiously. And he thought it a splendid idea, really, if also a bit far-reaching and unconventional (Evelyn had said it was pure hogwash), particularly for Richard Dalloway, whom he’d known forever.
And so they came, into the mouth of King’s Cross Station and under the two great sheltering arches that comprise its body, fi
rst in droves, and then more slowly, one by one, as a clock ticks off the minutes. Stella Bowles had been the first to arrive. She had seen Richard that morning in the park, she told Clarissa; hadn’t he mentioned it? (Her feathers were ruffled.) Stella Bowles, followed by Lady Hosford, wearing a fur stole over crimson moiré (in June no less) and accompanied by Miss Atkins, which, Clarissa thought, was really too much, for Lynn Atkins had not been invited. And what if everyone had decided to bring their servants along.... It would have been a fine mess. She might as well have brought Josephine the cat, too—and Elizabeth could have brought Grizzle! But there she was, Lady Hosford, in a powder cloud (Lynn Atkins scurrying along beside her), a Duchess for whom Clarissa remained grateful (they embraced), as she had all of her adult life. And I am up to it, Clarissa thought; I can carry the party if I have to.
Whereas old Wilkins, who had at first tried to announce each of the guests as they arrived—“Mrs. George Bowles,” “Lady Hosford”—just as he always did at their parties at home in Westminster, had abandoned any such hope of doing so. For there were people coming at him now from so many directions that he could not keep up, and finally—crossing his arms and giving one big “harumpf!” in exasperation—he resumed his position as guardian of the flowers, for they were manageable (and could be carried on to the train now, his master told him).
And Mrs. Walker was saying how tired she was of standing already, how her poor old legs hurt and how she wished they would get on with it, for it would be a long night (whereas all she really wanted now, she said, was a fag). But Lucy reminded Mrs. Walker that she was only forty-three, and then said that she herself was excited—riding on a train in the middle of the night, something she had never, in all her life, done before; and it didn’t even matter that she didn’t know where they were going; she couldn’t wait to tell Paul; she wished he was there.
That’s youth talking, Mrs. Walker thought. “It’s like life’s journey, it is,” she said and smiled wryly. “You never know where it’s going to take you,” at which Sophie, Flora, and Mary all laughed, though Lucy did not; and Mrs. Walker herself only gave a sad smile.
But there was Sir John and Lady Needham, Prickett Ellis, Miss Weld (seemingly floating, wearing muslin), Lord and Lady Lexham, Lady Lovejoy, Miss Alice—Clarissa greeted them all and checked them off the guest-list in her mind. And oh how she wished Stella Bowles would leave her side and go and talk with someone else; she knew Stella did not like her (for they were neighbours and yet they never saw one another except in passing, on the street, or, like this, at parties, and what else could it possibly mean but that Stella did not like her?). But where was Elizabeth? (Clarissa’s eyes, scanning across feathered and beflowered hats, over top hats and bowlers and even a few balding heads, searched the crowd.) “There she is,” Clarissa said now to Colonel and Mrs. Garrod, pointing out her daughter in the crowd. “There’s our Elizabeth!”
“I’m studying to be a veterinarian,” Elizabeth was saying, “at The Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, in Liverpool,” talking with Eleanor Gibson and Katherine Truelock (the latter, a girlhood friend of her mother’s—one of the few Elizabeth actually liked), who had not yet found their way to Clarissa through the growing crowd of guests continuing to stream into the station.
And now Clarissa let the arrivals wash over her (all the while trying to keep up with her mental check-list): there was Hugh Whitbread, whom she’d known for-ever, without poor Evelyn of course, but well scrubbed and polished as always (that was Hugh); and Mr. Bowley, and Mrs. Hilbery, and Lady Mary Maddox (“A new hat?” she asked: she simply must reveal where she got it), and Mr. Quin, and Ralph Lyon, then Mrs. Mount, who’d grown old since she had last seen her (though she wouldn’t say that of course); had she been ill? And Celia and Herbert Ainsty (nearing only their twenty-fifth, Celia told her), and Professor Brierly (who would no doubt discuss Milton), and Mrs. Dakers....
But it was Richard Dalloway, nervously checking his watch again—9.50—who was the first to greet Sally Seton, now Lady Rosseter, along with her husband John (the owner of cotton mills, Clarissa had told him), who had just come dashing into the station, more or less at the last minute—running late as usual, Sally said—as the taxicab driver had picked them up at their hotel and then, for some unknown reason, deposited them in front of Pancras, and so rattled had they been—for they never came into London (the traffic was positively harrowing)—that they had not protested. (And the train was about to take off; it had just been announced: Track Four.) And so they embraced, he and Sally, and after saying she hoped they weren’t too late, hoped they hadn’t missed anything, Sally immediately resumed her teasing of him, as she always had, still calling him, these thirty-odd years later, introducing him to her husband, first as “Wickham”—and laughing (for Clarissa had mistaken him for a Wickham when they’d first met), and then as “My name is Dalloway” (his response to the mistake)—and laughing again, which he could now take good-naturedly, though the joke had worn thin; and it was rather a disappointment—that Sally should still be repeating the same jokes these thirty-plus years later; that she had lost the freshness which once made her so fetching. But John Rosseter, a tall, bald, lumbering man who looked rather uncomfortable in his ill-fitting, formal clothes (Richard thought), seemed a likable sort (they shook hands)—someone who appeared and whose manly handshake suggested that he might share an interest in the outdoors; he would talk with him.
“Where is Clarissa?” Sally asked, dramatically putting her hand up over her eyes and scouring the crowd, looking this way and that, just as the captain of a sea-battled ship searches for the much-anticipated shoreline.
Richard looked around, then laughed. “Where is Clarissa, indeed!” For the crowd had swelled.
“All aboard, all aboard for North Yorkshire, North Yorkshire; all aboard for North Yorkshire, Track Four. Track Four,” it was announced, and Richard, apologising, said he would have to leave them now; that he must direct everyone to the first two cars.
And so the murmuring guests, only some of whom had heard the announced destination (“We are going to North Yorkshire tonight!” “Such a long distance! Why so far?” “We’ll never sleep!”) began moving towards the train and, slowly, very slowly—though not from reluctance on the part of most of them, began boarding, being greeted as they did so by Wilkins and Lucy who, along with Mrs. Walker and the three other servants had occupied the cars a few minutes early so as to try to arrange things in advance.
But Clarissa was certain that everyone she had invited had not yet arrived, she said to Nancy Blow as they embraced (and what a lovely fragrance; lavender, was it?); she hoped that all of them would make it there on time. Where, for example, was Sally? Sally Rosseter and her husband. Well, there was Millicent Bruton (who did not like her), blowing in and looking like some stiff, victorious general fresh off the battlefield, Clarissa thought (she could picture the golden epaulettes glittering atop Lady Bruton’s shoulders in the sun) as they shook hands, which was always somewhat agonising for her given the determined firmness of Lady Bruton’s grasp—it was as if she were gritting her teeth; but she knew Dick would be pleased, for there was the biography, which she knew he needed, particularly now that he had resigned from the House.
And there! There were some of the others she had invited but had not yet seen: Sasha Richardson, smoking a cigarette—lovely and ravishing in a silvery, grey gauze; and yet there was always something so sad and solitary about her too, Clarissa thought—she did not enjoy life; Mrs. Durrant and Clara, Sir Harry, Willie Titcomb, Jim Hutton (but she could not see whether he was wearing red socks; she must look again once they were on the train, and if he was she must remember to point them out to Sally, for that was something Sally would appreciate); and there came Lord Gayton and Ralph Johnson, and the Brunners (who relayed the message that—at the last minute Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, much to their regret—would be unable to attend, to which Clarissa responded that she hoped everything was all right?); and Miss O’Keefe (who
reminded her of a sly cat), and, oh, there, at some distance, there was Sally! She called to her—“Sally! Sally!” But it was no use; her voice could not rise above the roar of the crowd. She supposed she would have to wait until they were on the train. (And, she thought now, looking down at the floor so as not to have to engage anyone, to have a brief moment to herself, she had not seen Dick or Elizabeth for quite some time, though she assumed Dick was at the train directing people; and Elizabeth had been in good hands when last she had seen her, talking with dear Katherine Truelock and her Eleanor.)
Oh, but there were more, more of her guests, all of whom she saw now only at a distance—Lily Everit, Bob Brinsley, her beloved Mrs. Vallance, dignified in black lace (holding an ornate, silver-headed walking-stick); and Jack Renshaw, Roderick Serle and Ruth Anning (dressed in purple velvet); Mira Cartwright, Mabel Waring, Ellen Barnet (on crutches, poor thing), Rose Shaw (who, Clarissa thought, looked cheap), Charles Burt, Mrs. Holman, Bertram Pritchard, and there, lastly, she thought, Miss Milan and Robert Haydon, running for the train (oh, there went her hat! She would have to stop and retrieve it. She did). Miss Milan and Robert Haydon running hand in hand (a new couple? Clarissa wondered now).
AND SO, AT 10 P.M. (give or take a minute or two), the train began to move; or rather (so Robert Davies observed, for he had somehow managed to blend in with the crowd and sneak onto the train unnoticed), it was that by-now old and familiar (if unsettling) sensation of the train standing still and the station itself beginning to pull away, particularly if one were seated backwards, facing away from the direction in which the train was moving, as he was now, at the back of the last of the two Dalloway cars, one car and the length of another from Richard and his wife.
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