MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET
BY VIRGINIA WOOLF
THE
DIAL
VOLUME LXXV
July to December, 1923
THE DIAL PUBLISHING COMPANY
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 momentwas complete; for Mrs Dalloway June was fresh. A happy childhood—and itwas not 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 Octoberair—there is nothing to take the place of childhood. A leaf of mintbrings it back; 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. B., saw her as he hurried to his office. Shestiffened a little, waiting for Durtnall'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 betterthan walking in the country!"
"We've just come up" said Hugh Whitbread. "Unfortunately to seedoctors."
"Milly?" said Mrs Dalloway, instantly compassionate.
"Out of sorts," said Hugh Whitbread. "That sort of thing. Dickall right?"
"First rate!" said Clarissa.
Of course, she thought, walking on, Milly is about myage—fifty—fifty-two. So it is probably that, Hugh'smanner had said so, said it perfectly—dear old Hugh, thought MrsDalloway, remembering with amusement, with gratitude, with emotion, howshy, like a brother—one would rather die than speak to one'sbrother—Hugh had always been, when he was at Oxford, and cameover, and perhaps one of them (drat the thing!) couldn't ride. How thencould women sit in Parliament? How could they do things with men? Forthere is this extraordinarily deep instinct, something inside one; youcan't get over it; it's no use trying; and men like Hugh respect it withoutour saying it, which is what one loves, thought Clarissa, in dear oldHugh.
She had passed through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of theempty road with its thin trees Victoria's white mound, Victoria'sbillowing motherliness, amplitude and homeliness, always ridiculous, yethow sublime, thought Mrs Dalloway, reme