not be able to go to Brighton after all. There was no time to let Mrs.
Williams know, and really Rezia thought it very, very annoying, when
she caught sight of the hat and thought ... perhaps ... she ... might
just make a little.... Her voice died out in contented melody.
“Ah, damn!” she cried (it was a joke of theirs, her swearing), the
needle had broken. Hat, child, Brighton, needle. She built it up; first
one thing, then another, she built it up, sewing.
She wanted him to say whether by moving the rose she had improved the
hat. She sat on the end of the sofa.
They were perfectly happy now, she said, suddenly, putting the hat
down. For she could say anything to him now. She could say whatever
came into her head. That was almost the first thing she had felt about
him, that night in the café when he had come in with his English
friends. He had come in, rather shyly, looking round him, and his hat
had fallen when he hung it up. That she could remember. She knew he was
English, though not one of the large Englishmen her sister admired, for
he was always thin; but he had a beautiful fresh colour; and with his
big nose, his bright eyes, his way of sitting a little hunched made
her think, she had often told him, of a young hawk, that first evening
she saw him, when they were playing dominoes, and he had come in--of
a young hawk; but with her he was always very gentle. She had never
seen him wild or drunk, only suffering sometimes through this terrible
war, but even so, when she came in, he would put it all away. Anything,
anything in the whole world, any little bother with her work, anything
that struck her to say she would tell him, and he understood at once.
Her own family even were not the same. Being older than she was and
being so clever--how serious he was, wanting her to read Shakespeare
before she could even read a child’s story in English!--being so much
more experienced, he could help her. And she too could help him.
But this hat now. And then (it was getting late) Sir William Bradshaw.
She held her hands to her head, waiting for him to say did he like
the hat or not, and as she sat there, waiting, looking down, he could
feel her mind, like a bird, falling from branch to branch, and always
alighting, quite rightly; he could follow her mind, as she sat there
in one of those loose lax poses that came to her naturally and, if he
should say anything, at once she smiled, like a bird alighting with
all its claws firm upon the bough.
But he remembered Bradshaw said, “The people we are most fond of are
not good for us when we are ill.” Bradshaw said, he must be taught to
rest. Bradshaw said they must be separated.
“Must,” “must,” why “must”? What power had Bradshaw over him? “What
right has Bradshaw to say ‘must’ to me?” he demanded.
“It is because you talked of killing yourself,” said Rezia.
(Mercifully, she could now say anything to Septimus.)
So he was in their power! Holmes and Bradshaw were on him! The brute
with the red nostrils was snuffing into every secret place! “Must” it
could say! Where were his papers? the things he had written?
She brought him his papers, the things he had written, things she had
written for him. She tumbled them out on to the sofa. They looked at
them together. Diagrams, designs, little men and women brandishing
sticks for arms, with wings--were they?--on their backs; circles
traced round shillings and sixpences--the suns and stars; zigzagging
precipices with mountaineers ascending roped together, exactly like
knives and forks; sea pieces with little faces laughing out of what
might perhaps be waves: the map of the world. Burn them! he cried.
Now for his writings; how the dead sing behind rhododendron bushes;
odes to Time; conversations with Shakespeare; Evans, Evans, Evans--his
messages from the dead; do not cut down trees; tell the Prime Minister.
Universal love: the meaning of the world. Burn them! he cried.
But Rezia laid her hands on them. Some were very beautiful, she
thought. She would tie them up (for she had no envelope) with a piece
of silk.
Even if they took him, she said, she would go with him. They could not
separate them against their wills, she said.
Shuffling the edges straight, she did up the papers, and tied the
parcel almost without looking, sitting beside him, he thought, as if
all her petals were about her. She was a flowering tree; and through
her branches looked out the face of a lawgiver, who had reached a
sanctuary where she feared no one; not Holmes; not Bradshaw; a miracle,
a triumph, the last and greatest. Staggering he saw her mount the
appalling staircase, laden with Holmes and Bradshaw, men who never
weighed less than eleven stone six, who sent their wives to Court, men
who made ten thousand a year and talked of proportion; who different
in their verdicts (for Holmes said one thing, Bradshaw another), yet
judges they were; who mixed the vision and the sideboard; saw nothing
clear, yet ruled, yet inflicted. “Must” they said. Over them she
triumphed.
“There!” she said. The papers were tied up. No one should get at them.
She would put them away.
And, she said, nothing should separate them. She sat down beside him
and called him by the name of that hawk or crow which being malicious
and a great destroyer of crops was precisely like him. No one could
separate them, she said.
Then she got up to go into the bedroom to pack their things, but
hearing voices downstairs and thinking that Dr. Holmes had perhaps
called, ran down to prevent him coming up.
Septimus could hear her talking to Holmes on the staircase.
“My dear lady, I have come as a friend,” Holmes was saying.
“No. I will not allow you to see my husband,” she said.
He could see her, like a little hen, with her wings spread barring his
passage. But Holmes persevered.
“My dear lady, allow me....” Holmes said, putting her aside (Holmes was
a powerfully built man).
Holmes was coming upstairs. Holmes would burst open the door. Holmes
would say “In a funk, eh?” Holmes would get him. But no; not Holmes;
not Bradshaw. Getting up rather unsteadily, hopping indeed from foot to
foot, he considered Mrs. Filmer’s nice clean bread knife with “Bread”
carved on the handle. Ah, but one mustn’t spoil that. The gas fire?
But it was too late now. Holmes was coming. Razors he might have got,
but Rezia, who always did that sort of thing, had packed them. There
remained only the window, the large Bloomsbury-lodging house window,
the tiresome, the troublesome, and rather melodramatic business of
opening the window and throwing himself out. It was their idea of
tragedy, not his or Rezia’s (for she was with him). Holmes and Bradshaw
like that sort of thing. (He sat on the sill.) But he would wait till
the very last moment. He did not want to die. Life was good. The sun
hot. Only human beings--what did _they_ want? Coming down the staircase
opposite an old man stopped and stared at him. Holmes was at the door.
“I’ll give it you!” he cried, and flung himself vigorously, violently
down on to Mrs. Filmer’s area railings.
“The coward!” cried Dr. Holmes, bursting the door open. Rezia ran
to the window, she saw; she understood. Dr. Holmes and Mrs. Filmer
collided with each other. Mrs. Filmer flapped her apron and made her
hide her eyes in the bedroom. There was a great deal of running up
and down stairs. Dr. Holmes came in--white as a sheet, shaking all
over, with a glass in his hand. She must be brave and drink something,
he said (What was it? Something sweet), for her husband was horribly
mangled, would not recover consciousness, she must not see him, must be
spared as much as possible, would have the inquest to go through, poor
young woman. Who could have foretold it? A sudden impulse, no one was
in the least to blame (he told Mrs. Filmer). And why the devil he did
it, Dr. Holmes could not conceive.
It seemed to her as she drank the sweet stuff that she was opening
long windows, stepping out into some garden. But where? The clock
was striking--one, two, three: how sensible the sound was; compared
with all this thumping and whispering; like Septimus himself. She was
falling asleep. But the clock went on striking, four, five, six and
Mrs. Filmer waving her apron (they wouldn’t bring the body in here,
would they?) seemed part of that garden; or a flag. She had once seen a
flag slowly rippling out from a mast when she stayed with her aunt at
Venice. Men killed in battle were thus saluted, and Septimus had been
through the War. Of her memories, most were happy.
She put on her hat, and ran through cornfields--where could it have
been?--on to some hill, somewhere near the sea, for there were ships,
gulls, butterflies; they sat on a cliff. In London too, there they sat,
and, half dreaming, came to her through the bedroom door, rain falling,
whisperings, stirrings among dry corn, the caress of the sea, as it
seemed to her, hollowing them in its arched shell and murmuring to her
laid on shore, strewn she felt, like flying flowers over some tomb.
“He is dead,” she said, smiling at the poor old woman who guarded her
with her honest light-blue eyes fixed on the door. (They wouldn’t bring
him in here, would they?) But Mrs. Filmer pooh-poohed. Oh no, oh no!
They were carrying him away now. Ought she not to be told? Married
people ought to be together, Mrs. Filmer thought. But they must do as
the doctor said.
“Let her sleep,” said Dr. Holmes, feeling her pulse. She saw the large
outline of his body standing dark against the window. So that was Dr.
Holmes.
One of the triumphs of civilisation, Peter Walsh thought. It is one of
the triumphs of civilisation, as the light high bell of the ambulance
sounded. Swiftly, cleanly the ambulance sped to the hospital, having
picked up instantly, humanely, some poor devil; some one hit on the
head, struck down by disease, knocked over perhaps a minute or so
ago at one of these crossings, as might happen to oneself. That was
civilisation. It struck him coming back from the East--the efficiency,
the organisation, the communal spirit of London. Every cart or carriage
of its own accord drew aside to let the ambulance pass. Perhaps it was
morbid; or was it not touching rather, the respect which they showed
this ambulance with its victim inside--busy men hurrying home yet
instantly bethinking them as it passed of some wife; or presumably
how easily it might have been them there, stretched on a shelf with a
doctor and a nurse.... Ah, but thinking became morbid, sentimental,
directly one began conjuring up doctors, dead bodies; a little glow
of pleasure, a sort of lust too over the visual impression warned one
not to go on with that sort of thing any more--fatal to art, fatal
to friendship. True. And yet, thought Peter Walsh, as the ambulance
turned the corner though the light high bell could be heard down the
next street and still farther as it crossed the Tottenham Court Road,
chiming constantly, it is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one
may do as one chooses. One might weep if no one saw. It had been his
undoing--this susceptibility--in Anglo-Indian society; not weeping
at the right time, or laughing either. I have that in me, he thought
standing by the pillar-box, which could now dissolve in tears. Why,
Heaven knows. Beauty of some sort probably, and the weight of the day,
which beginning with that visit to Clarissa had exhausted him with
its heat, its intensity, and the drip, drip, of one impression after
another down into that cellar where they stood, deep, dark, and no one
would ever know. Partly for that reason, its secrecy, complete and
inviolable, he had found life like an unknown garden, full of turns
and corners, surprising, yes; really it took one’s breath away, these
moments; there coming to him by the pillar-box opposite the British
Museum one of them, a moment, in which things came together; this
ambulance; and life and death. It was as if he were sucked up to some
very high roof by that rush of emotion and the rest of him, like a
white shell-sprinkled beach, left bare. It had been his undoing in
Anglo-Indian society--this susceptibility.
Clarissa once, going on top of an omnibus with him somewhere, Clarissa
superficially at least, so easily moved, now in despair, now in the
best of spirits, all aquiver in those days and such good company,
spotting queer little scenes, names, people from the top of a bus, for
they used to explore London and bring back bags full of treasures from
the Caledonian market--Clarissa had a theory in those days--they had
heaps of theories, always theories, as young people have. It was to
explain the feeling they had of dissatisfaction; not knowing people;
not being known. For how could they know each other? You met every
day; then not for six months, or years. It was unsatisfactory, they
agreed, how little one knew people. But she said, sitting on the bus
going up Shaftesbury Avenue, she felt herself everywhere; not “here,
here, here”; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere. She
waved her hand, going up Shaftesbury Avenue. She was all that. So that
to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed
them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never
spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter--even
trees, or barns. It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her
horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for
all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which
appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of
us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow
attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places after
death ... perhaps--perhaps.
Looking back over that long friendship of almost thirty years her
theory worked to this extent. Brief, broken, often painful as their
actual meetings had been what with his absences and interruptions
(this morning, for instance, in came Elizabeth, like a long-legged
colt, handsome, dumb, just as he was beginning to talk to Clarissa)
the effect of them on his life was immeasurable. There was a mystery
about it. You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain--the
actual meeting; horribly painful as often as not; yet in absence, in
the most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent,
let you touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel of it and
understanding, after years of lying lost. Thus she had come to him; on
board ship; in the Himalayas; suggested by the oddest things (so Sally
Seton, generous, enthusiastic goose! thought of _him_ when she saw blue
hydrangeas). She had influenced him more than any person he had ever
known. And always in this way coming before him without his wishing
it, cool, lady-like, critical; or ravishing, romantic, recalling some
field or English harvest. He saw her most often in the country, not in
London. One scene after another at Bourton....
He had reached his hotel. He crossed the hall, with its mounds of
reddish chairs and sofas, its spike-leaved, withered-looking plants.
He got his key off the hook. The young lady handed him some letters.
He went upstairs--he saw her most often at Bourton, in the late
summer, when he stayed there for a week, or fortnight even, as people
did in those days. First on top of some hill there she would stand,
hands clapped to her hair, her cloak blowing out, pointing, crying
to them--she saw the Severn beneath. Or in a wood, making the kettle
boil--very ineffective with her fingers; the smoke curtseying, blowing
in their faces; her little pink face showing through; begging water
from an old woman in a cottage, who came to the door to watch them go.
They walked always; the others drove. She was bored driving, disliked
all animals, except that dog. They tramped miles along roads. She would
break off to get her bearings, pilot him back across country; and all
the time they argued, discussed poetry, discussed people, discussed
politics (she was a Radical then); never noticing a thing except when
she stopped, cried out at a view or a tree, and made him look with
her; and so on again, through stubble fields, she walking ahead, with
a flower for her aunt, never tired of walking for all her delicacy; to
drop down on Bourton in the dusk. Then, after dinner, old Breitkopf
would open the piano and sing without any voice, and they would lie
sunk in arm-chairs, trying not to laugh, but always breaking down and
laughing, laughing--laughing at nothing. Breitkopf was supposed not to
see. And then in the morning, flirting up and down like a wagtail in
front of the house....
Oh it was a letter from her! This blue envelope; that was her hand. And
he would have to read it. Here was another of those meetings, bound
to be painful! To read her letter needed the devil of an effort. “How
heavenly it was to see him. She must tell him that.” That was all.
But it upset him. It annoyed him. He wished she hadn’t written it.
Coming on top of his thoughts, it was like a nudge in the ribs. Why
couldn’t she let him be? After all, she had married Dalloway, and
lived with him in perfect happiness all these years.
These hotels are not consoling places. Far from it. Any number of
people had hung up their hats on those pegs. Even the flies, if
you thought of it, had settled on other people’s noses. As for the
cleanliness which hit him in the face, it wasn’t cleanliness, so much
as bareness, frigidity; a thing that had to be. Some arid matron made
her rounds at dawn sniffing, peering, causing blue-nosed maids to
scour, for all the world as if the next visitor were a joint of meat
to be served on a perfectly clean platter. For sleep, one bed; for
sitting in, one arm-chair; for cleaning one’s teeth and shaving one’s
chin, one tumbler, one looking-glass. Books, letters, dressing-gown,
slipped about on the impersonality of the horsehair like incongruous
impertinences. And it was Clarissa’s letter that made him see all this.
“Heavenly to see you. She must say so!” He folded the paper; pushed it
away; nothing would induce him to read it again!
To get that letter to him by six o’clock she must have sat down and
written it directly he left her; stamped it; sent somebody to the
post. It was, as people say, very like her. She was upset by his
visit. She had felt a great deal; had for a moment, when she kissed
his hand, regretted, envied him even, remembered possibly (for he
saw her look it) something he had said--how they would change the
world if she married him perhaps; whereas, it was this; it was middle
age; it was mediocrity; then forced herself with her indomitable
vitality to put all that aside, there being in her a thread of life
which for toughness, endurance, power to overcome obstacles, and
carry her triumphantly through he had never known the like of. Yes;
but there would come a reaction directly he left the room. She would
be frightfully sorry for him; she would think what in the world she
could do to give him pleasure (short always of the one thing) and he
could see her with the tears running down her cheeks going to her
writing-table and dashing off that one line which he was to find
greeting him.... “Heavenly to see you!” And she meant it.
Peter Walsh had now unlaced his boots.
But it would not have been a success, their marriage. The other thing,
after all, came so much more naturally.
It was odd; it was true; lots of people felt it. Peter Walsh, who had
done just respectably, filled the usual posts adequately, was liked,
but thought a little cranky, gave himself airs--it was odd that _he_
should have had, especially now that his hair was grey, a contented
look; a look of having reserves. It was this that made him attractive
to women who liked the sense that he was not altogether manly. There
was something unusual about him, or something behind him. It might be
that he was bookish--never came to see you without taking up the book
on the table (he was now reading, with his bootlaces trailing on the
floor); or that he was a gentleman, which showed itself in the way he
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and in his manners of course to
women. For it was very charming and quite ridiculous how easily some
girl without a grain of sense could twist him round her finger. But
at her own risk. That is to say, though he might be ever so easy, and
indeed with his gaiety and good-breeding fascinating to be with, it was
only up to a point. She said something--no, no; he saw through that.
He wouldn’t stand that--no, no. Then he could shout and rock and hold
his sides together over some joke with men. He was the best judge of
cooking in India. He was a man. But not the sort of man one had to
respect--which was a mercy; not like Major Simmons, for instance; not
in the least like that, Daisy thought, when, in spite of her two small
children, she used to compare them.
He pulled off his boots. He emptied his pockets. Out came with his
pocket-knife a snapshot of Daisy on the verandah; Daisy all in white,
with a fox-terrier on her knee; very charming, very dark; the best he
had ever seen of her. It did come, after all so naturally; so much
more naturally than Clarissa. No fuss. No bother. No finicking and
fidgeting. All plain sailing. And the dark, adorably pretty girl on
the verandah exclaimed (he could hear her). Of course, of course she
would give him everything! she cried (she had no sense of discretion)
everything he wanted! she cried, running to meet him, whoever might be
looking. And she was only twenty-four. And she had two children. Well,
well!
Well indeed he had got himself into a mess at his age. And it came over
him when he woke in the night pretty forcibly. Suppose they did marry?
For him it would be all very well, but what about her? Mrs. Burgess,
a good sort and no chatterbox, in whom he had confided, thought this
absence of his in England, ostensibly to see lawyers might serve to
make Daisy reconsider, think what it meant. It was a question of
her position, Mrs. Burgess said; the social barrier; giving up her
children. She’d be a widow with a past one of these days, draggling
about in the suburbs, or more likely, indiscriminate (you know, she
said, what such women get like, with too much paint). But Peter Walsh
pooh-poohed all that. He didn’t mean to die yet. Anyhow she must settle
for herself; judge for herself, he thought, padding about the room in
his socks smoothing out his dress-shirt, for he might go to Clarissa’s
party, or he might go to one of the Halls, or he might settle in and
read an absorbing book written by a man he used to know at Oxford. And
if he did retire, that’s what he’d do--write books. He would go to
Oxford and poke about in the Bodleian. Vainly the dark, adorably pretty
girl ran to the end of the terrace; vainly waved her hand; vainly
cried she didn’t care a straw what people said. There he was, the man
she thought the world of, the perfect gentleman, the fascinating, the
distinguished (and his age made not the least difference to her),
padding about a room in an hotel in Bloomsbury, shaving, washing,
continuing, as he took up cans, put down razors, to poke about in the
Bodleian, and get at the truth about one or two little matters that
interested him. And he would have a chat with whoever it might be, and
so come to disregard more and more precise hours for lunch, and miss
engagements, and when Daisy asked him, as she would, for a kiss, a
scene, fail to come up to the scratch (though he was genuinely devoted
to her)--in short it might be happier, as Mrs. Burgess said, that she
should forget him, or merely remember him as he was in August 1922,
like a figure standing at the cross roads at dusk, which grows more and
more remote as the dog-cart spins away, carrying her securely fastened
to the back seat, though her arms are outstretched, and as she sees
the figure dwindle and disappear still she cries out how she would do
anything in the world, anything, anything, anything....