Mr Dalloway

by Robin Lippincott

  But Elizabeth was satisfied; someone beside herself had known and remembered Miss Kilman.

  “And we are here upon a darkling plain...” Professor Brierly said, to no one in particular.

  But it was more difficult, Robbie thought, moving about so as to avoid Brierly, more difficult now that they were no longer in the contained areas of train car and omnibus, but were instead individually moving about such a vast moor. Where, for example, was Richard? He had not seen him since they’d disembarked. And it seemed possible that he would not see Richard again as long as they remained here; or conversely, that he might bump into Richard or Mrs.Dalloway at any moment (for he had finally seen her identified; a handsome, white-haired, middle-aged woman). It was dangerous; but what should he do? Remaining in one place would most likely serve him best, he resolved; remaining in one place and staying alert. Perhaps he would see Richard’s daughter, Elizabeth, and he could ask her if she had seen her father.

  Now looking about the moor he noticed a tall, thin woman standing with another, shorter, rather masculine-looking woman, not more than ten feet away. Isn’t that Virginia Woolf? he asked himself He had been introduced to her once at a party in London for one of Faber’s authors. He saw her only in profile (now she turned towards him); yes, he believed it was—Mrs. Woolf—and her friend Vita Sackville-West.

  “There’s Virginia!” Lady Vallance cried, interrupting Clarissa Dalloway as she spotted a tall, elegant figure standing in the grass talking with another woman. “Why, I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Who?” Clarissa Dalloway asked.

  “Virginia Woolf,” Lady Vallance said. “And that’s that Sackville-West woman with her.” And then Lady Vallance whispered something inaudible into Clarissa Dalloway’s ear.

  “Where?” Clarissa asked, looking about.

  “There,” Lady Vallance pointed. “I overheard someone in the crowd say that they had seen her get on the train, but I didn’t think much of it.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Clarissa said, “much more so than her pictures reflect. Do you know her?”

  “Oh my, yes; I’ve known her since she was a child; my parents knew her parents, you see, when we lived in Hyde Park—what? some forty years ago now. We have the same birthday, you know,” Lady Vallance added, “twenty-five January; though I am twenty-six years older.” The older woman continued to look over at the younger, now-famous author as if she were looking at her own past. “Little Virginia Stephen,” she said wistfully. “Such a gloomy household, the Stephens,” she added. “Mother and Father didn’t approve of them.” She seemed lost in her own reverie. “Little Virginia always had the biggest eyes; they were like saucers.” Now she looked away. “But I haven’t seen much of her over the years.”

  And Clarissa Dalloway said that she should like to meet Mrs. Woolf; would Lady Vallance introduce her?

  But just as Lady Vallance had said that of course she would introduce them and she and Clarissa had turned to walk over to the two writers, the Mrs. Woolf and Sackville-West were joined by two men (“probably their husbands,” Lady Vallance speculated) and then walked away as a foursome, disappearing into the expectant crowd.

  “Richard, I have just heard,” Lady Bruton announced to Mr. Dalloway in her best, booming voice, “I have just heard that for this event some Parisian has chartered flights by the Imperial Airways from Paris to Croydon at ten guineas a seat. Ten guineas!” Now wasn’t that just like the French? she asked him.

  But his attention was distracted by the servants—Wilkins, Lucy, Mrs. Walker, the three specially hired girls, and Lady Hosford’s Miss What’shername, all of whom seemed to be having a riotous good time together. I am tired of Millicent Bruton’s prejudices (he thought), and thinking, too, of his biography, he hoped that such irrationally held views did not pervade the entire family.

  He excused himself and moved nearer to where the servants were sitting. They were teasing Wilkins, particularly Mrs. Walker, as she smoked: “But do ye have a lady-friend, Mr. Wilkins?” she asked, amidst giggling from the others. “Or maybe you prefer the boys?” she went on, at which Sophie whooped with laughter, flapping her white apron.

  Richard Dalloway felt himself colouring and moved on, away from where the members of the party had gathered. He needed a moment; it had been a long trip. And reviewing the events of yesterday and last evening, perhaps inevitably, he thought now, he found himself thinking of Robbie. He actually thought he had seen Robbie’s face earlier, briefly, amidst the crowd on Bardon Fell, but just as immediately he dismissed the idea, recognising wishful thinking when he saw it. It was absurd—he had clearly seen someone who had reminded him of Robbie; or he had imagined Robbie.

  I love Clarissa, he thought to himself now, standing alone, away from the crowd, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, staring at the ground. But I love Robbie, too; I must admit that once and for all. I love Robbie; I miss him; and I want him: my life is incomplete without him.

  But then he noticed Sasha Richardson, whom he’d known since she was a baby—the ambassador’s daughter; Sasha, who still called him “Mr. Dalloway,” also standing alone—in her sleeveless dress, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself

  “You must be freezing, dear,” he said, walking over to her.

  Sasha nodded, her teeth chattering.

  Richard put an arm around the beautiful young woman, saying, “Here, let me warm you.” Then he wrapped his jacket about her shoulders.

  She smiled, thanked him, and said that she had been standing there trying to imagine what it must be like to be married to someone for thirty years; that she couldn’t imagine it for herself And then she turned suddenly to Richard Dalloway and looked him in the eye, and he could see that she had been crying.

  “Are you happy?” she asked.

  Richard Dalloway was startled, taken aback even, for one didn’t ask such questions in polite society; and yet he understood Sasha’s impulse.

  “The short answer, dear Sasha, is, yes, I am happy.”

  Sasha wondered if he was being truthful, or if he was lying, as people usually did about the question of happiness. Nevertheless, she took Richard Dalloway’s hand and said, “Please tell me how you and Mrs. Dalloway came to be married.”

  “Oh, my,” Richard said, with Sasha’s arm in his as they began to stroll towards the party-goers. “It was so long ago now” (and here he looked off, as if searching for that past on the horizon). “Well, I believe you know that I first met Clarissa at Bourton, her family’s summer home. And she was—what?—a vision of loveliness. Much like yourself,” he added.

  She ignored the compliment. “Were you in love with her immediately?”

  “No,” he answered. “No, not really; I couldn’t be because, you see, there was another chap—perhaps you’ve heard his name: Peter Walsh? And he and Clarissa were quite involved with each other at the time....”

  “How did you win her over then?”

  Richard Dalloway was once again stunned by Sasha Richardson’s directness. He laughed; he guessed this was the way of the younger generation. “Well, I don’t know, quite; it just—happened; I suppose, in the end, because it was what Clarissa wanted.”

  A voice in the crowd called out that it was 5.50, and both of them paused to observe the sky. Richard Dalloway pointed out the thin spots in some of the clouds. The question now, he said to Sasha, is whether the sun will show through a cloud when the time comes.

  “And then what?” Sasha implored, returning to the subject of his and Mrs. Dalloway’s courtship.

  “Why so suddenly curious, Sasha?” he smiled.

  But she only shrugged, and for a moment a silence hung in the air between them as they continued to walk.

  “Well, I know that Clarissa and Peter had some terrible rows when she called it off between them,” he went on. “Everyone at Bourton seemed to know,” he laughed; “it was rather awful. And Clarissa’s best friend at the time, Sally Seton, now Sally Rosseter, did you meet her?” (Sas
ha nodded.) “Sally didn’t much like me and made no attempt to hide the fact, which was difficult.” He paused to take a deep breath. “But somehow Clarissa persevered and we began escaping into London together, which, well, you probably can’t imagine this, having grown up in the city—much as our Elizabeth takes it for granted—but, for Clarissa and me, who were raised in the country and had rarely set foot in London, it was sheer heaven.”

  He paused again, not wanting to go on too much, but Sasha merely looked at him imploringly, seemingly fascinated by his narrative.

  “We would ride the train in together from Bourton, get off at Waterloo, and then walk across the Hungerford footbridge. And it was as if the city was ours, Sasha; as if it welcomed us.” (He wondered if she could understand this.) “Well, so it is when one is in love, I suppose,” he added defensively, feeling slightly embarrassed. He went on. “And then we simply walked. All over the city; indeed, just as we were falling in love, so—together—did we fall in love with the city; we got to know it quite well, too.”

  “And do you walk still ?” Sasha asked.

  “Oh no,” Mr. Dalloway said. “No, we haven’t really walked in the city together for years; there hasn’t been time.”

  Sasha stopped and turned to him, for that was what she minded so much, that people should stop walking. “But isn’t that sad?” she asked.

  He hadn’t much thought of it, he said, but he supposed that there was something rather sad about it. Again there was a silence between them, but this time it felt awkward, uncomfortable. “We should be getting back,” he said, checking his watch.

  CLARISSA DALLOWAY STOOD alone in the odd, pre-eclipse light, her search for Richard having taken her there. And as she stood alone her mind took that characteristic downward turn, so that all she could think of, waiting there in the chill, was the end of the world, when time had run out (where she imagined Aunt Helena, Sylvia, and her father and mother were waiting for her). Or was it the beginning, before time? Whichever, she thought now—this was the largest window ever at which she would stand waiting.

  But then her reverie was interrupted as she noticed the sun’s rays breaking through the bottom of the clouds. She must find Richard (she thought), for she needed him; and she didn’t want to experience this without him. Then, suddenly, there he was, standing at her side.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, dear,” she said, grasping his hand.

  He told her that he had been talking with poor Sasha Richardson; rather consoling her, he thought.

  Clarissa looked at him quizzically, and he continued.

  “She told me she couldn’t imagine being married for thirty years and wanted to know all about our courtship—that sort of thing.”

  “Poor dear,” his wife said. “I do worry about her. But I presume you told her just how marvelous it was,” Clarissa said playfully.

  “Indeed I did,” he smiled. “For it was,” he added. He briefly looked down at the ground and then returned his gaze to his wife. “It served to remind me that we haven’t much walked in London together for years,” he said. “Sasha said she thought that rather sad.”

  “No, we haven’t,” she agreed. “I daresay it’s been at least fifteen or twenty years.”

  “But now that I have the time again, we must.” He squeezed her hand. “Just as we used to.”

  “6.20!” a wizened old woman called out through her megaphone. Silence immediately fell over the crowd as—en masse—they now stared up at the sky.

  The clouds were sweeping, moving along at a great pace; then sailing fast across the sun; then red streamers appeared, now a golden haze.

  Someone in the crowd announced that after this it would be over until 1999 (and Richard Dalloway thought to himself that 1999 was a year so far away, so remote-seeming, that he couldn’t even imagine it).

  Robbie felt spooked, haunted even, by the scene on Bardon Fell. It was as if they were all druids (he thought, standing alone and looking about); as if the world was—somehow—dead; he felt frightened; he was alone; where was Richard?

  Over the gathering crowd now there were great blue spaces in the clouds. Then suddenly, the colour began going out—the clouds were turning pale; and then a reddish black colour prevailed: nothing could be seen through the clouds. Now all colours faded as it became darker and darker, as at the beginning of a violent storm; and people were saying that this must be the shadow, this must be the shadow.

  “6.22!”

  Now everyone began pulling out the protective lenses Richard Dalloway had bought for them. He handed his wife hers from his shirt pocket.

  There he stood with his Clarissa (he thought), hand in hand, viewing the eclipse. It was their thirtieth wedding anniversary and the party he had given for her had been a success. And yet he missed Robbie.

  The sheep began bleating, as if they were frightened. And then the sun disappeared. It was like a sudden plunge, Richard Dalloway thought, a sudden plunge when one least expected it. One felt terribly small, minute, and inconsequential—like a blade of grass, an ant, or one of these sheep; and the cold increased. Suddenly, then, in the darkness, he saw an apparition—there was Robbie, standing at his side. But then the sky, as if it were a rebounding ball, took colour again as the light came back—in the valley, over the hills, at first glittering and aethereal, and then normal. It was impressive. And it was over.

  “How bracing!” Lady Hosford exclaimed.

  Eleanor Gibson put her arm around Katherine’s waist and, without saying anything—for so united were their minds after twenty-four years together—the two women thought, as one, about Caroline Furness, that American woman from the observatory at Vassar College....

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Katherine said, for both of them had been active in the suffragette movement before leaving London, and Caroline Furness’s presence, her very inclusion in the scientific community, had indeed made it a proud day for all women.

  And though Sasha Richardson stood alone, Richard Dalloway’s jacket still wrapped around her shoulders, the eclipse had somehow brought with it a feeling of warmth and well-being she had never known. It was as if she’d had a vision of the future, a surprising certainty that she would find someone, just as Mr. Dalloway had found Mrs. Dalloway, and that she would not—contrary to all prior expectations—have to live her life alone.

  Claire Milan kissed Robert Haydon full on the lips, thinking that they would remember this moment forever, for they were now engaged.

  But for Lady Vallance, the sun’s brief disappearance—all she could think of was how it seemed like a trial run of sorts, a simulation of how, in a fairly short time, five years from now, or tomorrow, her own life would soon be eclipsed.

  Still holding his wife’s hand, Richard Dalloway looked to his right and again saw the figure of Robbie. Only this time he realised, with nothing but pleasure, that it was no mere apparition but Robbie himself, in the flesh, standing at his side.

  He looked to Clarissa, who was marvelling over the eclipse with Lady Hosford. (It was all right, he told himself; she understood.) Oblivious to any concern about appearances or to what might or might not be the coincidence of just how Robbie happened to be there, all he could think was that this might be his last chance to prove to himself that his soul was not dead.

  He tightened his grasp on Clarissa’s hand (and, still talking with Lady Hosford, she squeezed his hand in return). Then, there, in the sunlight, amidst the crowd, he took Robbie’s hand in his, briefly, without even looking at him, and then he let it go. Only for a moment, but it was enough. It was a beginning.

  THE AUTHOR

  ROBIN LIPPINCOTT is the author of The Real, True Angel, a collection of short stories published in 1996 by Fleur-de-Lis Press. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The New York Times Book Review, The American Voice, The Literary Review, Provincetown Arts, and many other magazines; he was awarded fellowships to Yaddo in 1997 and 1998. Born and raised in the South, he has lived in Boston for twenty
years. He is currently at work on a novel.

  Donna Coveney

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to—Kirkby Tittle and Steve Bauer—readers, writers, and good friends whose enthusiasm and encouragement during the writing of this book was invaluable. And to Martha Corazon, Angelo Monaco, and Lee Salkovitz, who offered their thoughts on aesthetic (and other) matters.

  Thanks to—my sisters, Marcia Kay Lippincott and Cindy Brown, and my parents, Robert W. and Marcia L. Lippincott; and to Michael Anderson, Bruce Aufhammer, Ellen Balber, Bonnie Barber, Gaynor Blandford, Joe Caldwell, Michael Carroll, Donna Coveney, Eileen Fitzpatrick, Anne Hoppe, Bob O’Handley, Sheila Ortiz Taylor, Frankie Paino, Rick Reinkraut, Louise Riemer, Frederick Smock, and to my agent, Malaga Baldi, whose love for the book helped see me through.

  I am also grateful to the Corporation of Yaddo, which gave me—twice in as many years—the opportunity to work on my next book while this one awaited a publisher.

  As for that publisher.... Special thanks to—Sarah Gorham, Jeffrey Skinner, and the wonderful staff at Sarabande—Kristin Herbert, Kristina McGrath, and the inestimable Kirby Gann; also to Sally Arteseros for her fine editing job, and to Charles Casey Martin for the glorious design.

  Excerpts of this book appeared previously in The American Voice, No. 41, and in Virginia Woolf and Her Influences: Selected Papers from the Seventh Annual Virginia Woolf Conference (Pace University Press, 1998).

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a creative response to the great novel Mrs. Dalloway, following twenty-five years of passionate immersion in the life and work ofVirginia Woolf The extracts from Woolf s writings which appear at the beginning both inspired Mr. Dalloway and invited me to write it. I offer it as a token, however meager, of my admiration—the kind of admiration only one writer can have for another.