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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street - -Author: Virginia Woolf - -Release Date: September 3, 2020 [EBook #63107] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET *** - - - - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<h2>MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET</h2> - - -<h3>BY VIRGINIA WOOLF</h3> - - - -<h4>THE</h4> - -<h4>DIAL</h4> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;"> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="100" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4>VOLUME LXXV</h4> - -<h5><i>July to December, 1923</i></h5> - - - -<h4>THE DIAL PUBLISHING COMPANY</h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET</h4> - - -<h4>BY VIRGINIA WOOLF</h4> - - -<p><br /></p> - - -<p>Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the gloves herself.</p> - -<p>Big Ben was striking as she stepped out into the street. It was eleven -o'clock and the unused hour was fresh as if issued to children on a -beach. But there was something solemn in the deliberate swing of the -repeated strokes; something stirring in the murmur of wheels and the -shuffle of footsteps.</p> - -<p>No doubt they were not all bound on errands of happiness. There is much -more 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 for -the care of H. M.'s Office of Works. Only for Mrs Dalloway the moment -was complete; for Mrs Dalloway June was fresh. A happy childhood—and it -was 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 caw -of rooks falling from ever so high, down down through the October -air—there is nothing to take the place of childhood. A leaf of mint -brings it back; or a cup with a blue ring.</p> - -<p>Poor little wretches, she sighed, and pressed forward. Oh, right under -the horses' noses, you little demon! and there she was left on the kerb -stretching her hand out, while Jimmy Dawes grinned on the further side.</p> - -<p>A charming woman, poised, eager, strangely white-haired for her pink -cheeks, so Scope Purvis, C. B., saw her as he hurried to his office. She -stiffened a little, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. Big Ben struck -the tenth; struck the eleventh stroke. The leaden circles dissolved in -the air. Pride held her erect, inheriting, handing on, acquainted with -discipline and with suffering. How people suffered, how they suffered, -she thought, thinking of Mrs Foxcroft at the Embassy last night decked -with jewels, eating her heart out, because that nice boy was dead, and -now the old Manor House (Durtnall's van passed) must go to a cousin.</p> - -<p>"Good morning to you!" said Hugh Whitbread raising his hat rather -extravagantly by the china shop, for they had known each other as -children. "Where are you off to?"</p> - -<p>"I love walking in London" said Mrs Dalloway. "Really it's better -than walking in the country!"</p> - -<p>"We've just come up" said Hugh Whitbread. "Unfortunately to see -doctors."</p> - -<p>"Milly?" said Mrs Dalloway, instantly compassionate.</p> - -<p>"Out of sorts," said Hugh Whitbread. "That sort of thing. Dick -all right?"</p> - -<p>"First rate!" said Clarissa.</p> - -<p>Of course, she thought, walking on, Milly is about my -age—fifty—fifty-two. So it is probably <i>that</i>, Hugh's -manner had said so, said it perfectly—dear old Hugh, thought Mrs -Dalloway, remembering with amusement, with gratitude, with emotion, how -shy, like a brother—one would rather die than speak to one's -brother—Hugh had always been, when he was at Oxford, and came -over, and perhaps one of them (drat the thing!) couldn't ride. How then -could women sit in Parliament? How could they do things with men? For -there is this extraordinarily deep instinct, something inside one; you -can't get over it; it's no use trying; and men like Hugh respect it without -our saying it, which is what one loves, thought Clarissa, in dear old -Hugh.</p> - -<p>She had passed through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of the -empty road with its thin trees Victoria's white mound, Victoria's -billowing motherliness, amplitude and homeliness, always ridiculous, yet -how sublime, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering Kensington Gardens and -the old lady in horn spectacles and being told by Nanny to stop dead -still and bow to the Queen. The flag flew above the Palace. The King and -Queen were back then. Dick had met her at lunch the other day—a -thoroughly nice woman. It matters so much to the poor, thought Clarissa, -and to the soldiers. A man in bronze stood heroically on a pedestal with -a gun on her left hand side—the South African war. It matters, thought -Mrs Dalloway walking towards Buckingham Palace. There it stood -four-square, in the broad sunshine, uncompromising, plain. But it was -character she thought; something inborn in the race; what Indians -respected. The Queen went to hospitals, opened bazaars—the Queen of -England, thought Clarissa, looking at the Palace. Already at this hour a -motor car passed out at the gates; soldiers saluted; the gates were -shut. And Clarissa, crossing the road, entered the Park, holding herself -upright.</p> - -<p>June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Westminster -with mottled breasts gave suck to their young. Quite respectable girls -lay stretched on the grass. An elderly man, stooping very stiffly, -picked up a crumpled paper, spread it out flat and flung it away. How -horrible! Last night at the Embassy Sir Dighton had said "If I want a -fellow to hold my horse, I have only to put up my hand." But the -religious question is far more serious than the economic, Sir Dighton -had said, which she thought extraordinarily interesting, from a man like -Sir Dighton. "Oh, the country will never know what it has lost" he had -said, talking, of his own accord, about dear Jack Stewart.</p> - -<p>She mounted the little hill lightly. The air stirred with energy. -Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Piccadilly and -Arlington Street and the Mall seemed to chafe the very air in the Park -and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, upon waves of that divine -vitality which Clarissa loved. To ride; to dance; she had adored all -that. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what to -do with one's life, for young people were amazingly priggish—oh, the -things one had said! But one had conviction. Middle age is the devil. -People like Jack'll never know that, she thought; for he never once -thought of death, never, they said, knew he was dying. And now can -never mourn—how did it go?—a head grown grey. . . . From the -contagion of the world's slow stain . . . have drunk their cup a round or -two before. . . . From the contagion of the world's slow stain! She held -herself upright.</p> - -<p>But how Jack would have shouted! Quoting Shelley, in Piccadilly! "You -want a pin," he would have said. He hated frumps. "My God Clarissa! My -God Clarissa!"—she could hear him now at the Devonshire House party, -about poor Sylvia Hunt in her amber necklace and that dowdy old silk. -Clarissa held herself upright for she had spoken aloud and now she was -in Piccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns, and the -balconies; passing club windows full of newspapers; passing old Lady -Burdett Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; and -Devonshire House, without its gilt leopards; and Claridge's, where she -must remember Dick wanted her to leave a card on Mrs Jepson or she would -be gone. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St James -palace; like a child's game with bricks; and now—she had -passed Bond Street—she was by Hatchard's book shop. The stream -was endless—endless—endless. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham—what -was it? What a duck, she thought, looking at the frontispiece of some book -of memoirs spread wide in the bow window, Sir Joshua perhaps or Romney; -arch, bright, demure; the sort of girl—like her own Elizabeth—the -only <i>real</i> sort of girl. And there was that absurd book, Soapy Sponge, -which Jim used to quote by the yard; and Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew -them by heart. Phil and she had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and -Dick had said straight out at dinner that night that he had never heard of -her. Really, she had married him for that! He had never read -Shakespeare! There must be some little cheap book she could buy for -Milly—Cranford of course! Was there ever anything so enchanting as -the cow in petticoats? If only people had that sort of humour, that sort of -self-respect now, thought Clarissa, for she remembered the broad pages; -the sentences ending; the characters—how one talked about them as if -they were real. For all the great things one must go to the past, she -thought. From the contagion of the world's slow stain. . . . Fear no -more the heat o' the sun. . . . And now can never mourn, can never -mourn, she repeated, her eyes straying over the window; for it ran in -her head; the test of great poetry; the moderns had never written -anything one wanted to read about death, she thought; and turned.</p> - -<p>Omnibuses joined motor cars; motor cars vans; vans taxicabs; taxicabs -motor cars—here was an open motor car with a girl, alone. Up till four, -her feet tingling, I know, thought Clarissa, for the girl looked washed -out, half asleep, in the corner of the car after the dance. And another -car came; and another. No! No! No! Clarissa smiled good-naturedly. The -fat lady had taken every sort of trouble, but diamonds! orchids! at this -hour of the morning! No! No! No! The excellent policeman would, when the -time came, hold up his hand. Another motor car passed. How utterly -unattractive! Why should a girl of that age paint black round her eyes? -And a young man, with a girl, at this hour, when the country—The -admirable policeman raised his hand and Clarissa acknowledging his sway, -taking her time, crossed, walked towards Bond Street; saw the narrow -crooked street, the yellow banners; the thick notched telegraph wires -stretched across the sky.</p> - -<p>A hundred years ago her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry, who ran -away with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. Down Bond -Street the Parrys had walked for a hundred years, and might have met the -Dalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going up. Her father got his -clothes from Hill's. There was a roll of cloth in the window, and here -just one jar on a black table, incredibly expensive; like the thick pink -salmon on the ice block at the fishmonger's. The jewels were -exquisite—pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish, she thought, and -chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches which had been worn -on sea green satin by ladies with high head-dresses. But no good -looking! One must economize. She must go on past the picture dealer's -where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people had -thrown confetti—pink and blue—for a joke. If you had lived with -pictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa, -passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.</p> - -<p>The river of Bond Street was clogged. There, like a Queen at a -tournament, raised, regal, was Lady Bexborough. She sat in her carriage, -upright, alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose -at her wrist. She was in black, quite shabby, yet, thought Clarissa, how -extraordinarily it tells, breeding, self-respect, never saying a word -too much or letting people gossip; an astonishing friend; no one can -pick a hole in her after all these years, and now, there she is, thought -Clarissa, passing the Countess who waited powdered, perfectly still, and -Clarissa would have given anything to be like that, the mistress of -Clarefield, talking politics, like a man. But she never goes anywhere, -thought Clarissa, and it's quite useless to ask her, and the carriage -went on and Lady Bexborough was borne past like a Queen at a tournament, -though she had nothing to live for and the old man is failing and they -say she is sick of it all, thought Clarissa and the tears actually rose -to her eyes as she entered the shop.</p> - -<p>"Good morning" said Clarissa in her charming voice. "Gloves" she said -with her exquisite friendliness and putting her bag on the counter -began, very slowly, to undo the buttons. "White gloves" she said. "Above -the elbow" and she looked straight into the shopwoman's face—but this -was not the girl she remembered? She looked quite old. "These really -don't fit" said Clarissa. The shop girl looked at them. "Madame wears -bracelets?" Clarissa spread out her fingers. "Perhaps it's my rings." -And the girl took the grey gloves with her to the end of the counter.</p> - -<p>Yes, thought Clarissa, if it's the girl I remember she's twenty years -older. . . . There was only one other customer, sitting sideways at the -counter, her elbow poised, her bare hand drooping, vacant; like a figure -on a Japanese fan, thought Clarissa, too vacant perhaps, yet some men -would adore her. The lady shook her head sadly. Again the gloves were -too large. She turned round the glass. "Above the wrist" she reproached -the grey-headed woman; who looked and agreed.</p> - -<p>They waited; a clock ticked; Bond Street hummed, dulled, distant; the -woman went away holding gloves. "Above the wrist" said the lady, -mournfully, raising her voice. And she would have to order chairs, ices, -flowers, and cloak-room tickets, thought Clarissa. The people she didn't -want would come; the others wouldn't. She would stand by the door. They -sold stockings—silk stockings. A lady is known by her gloves and her -shoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silk -stockings quivering silver she looked at the lady, sloping shouldered, -her hand drooping, her bag slipping, her eyes vacantly on the floor. It -would be intolerable if dowdy women came to her party! Would one have -liked Keats if he had worn red socks? Oh, at last—she drew into the -counter and it flashed into her mind:</p> - -<p>"Do you remember before the war you had gloves with pearl buttons?"</p> - -<p>"French gloves, Madame?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, they were French" said Clarissa. The other lady rose very sadly -and took her bag, and looked at the gloves on the counter. But they were -all too large—always too large at the wrist.</p> - -<p>"With pearl buttons" said the shop-girl, who looked ever so much older. -She split the lengths of tissue paper apart on the counter. With pearl -buttons, thought Clarissa, perfectly simple—how French!</p> - -<p>"Madame's hands are so slender" said the shop girl, drawing the glove -firmly, smoothly, down over her rings. And Clarissa looked at her arm in -the looking glass. The glove hardly came to the elbow. Were there others -half an inch longer? Still it seemed tiresome to bother her—perhaps the -one day in the month, thought Clarissa, when it's an agony to stand. -"Oh, don't bother" she said. But the gloves were brought.</p> - -<p>"Don't you get fearfully tired" she said in her charming voice, -"standing? When d'you get your holiday?"</p> - -<p>"In September, Madame, when we're not so busy."</p> - -<p>When we're in the country thought Clarissa. Or shooting. She has a -fortnight at Brighton. In some stuffy lodging. The landlady takes the -sugar. Nothing would be easier than to send her to Mrs Lumley's right in -the country (and it was on the tip of her tongue). But then she -remembered how on their honeymoon Dick had shown her the folly of giving -impulsively. It was much more important, he said, to get trade with -China. Of course he was right. And she could feel the girl wouldn't like -to be given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Selling -gloves was her job. She had her own sorrows quite separate, "and now can -never mourn, can never mourn" the words ran in her head, "From the -contagion of the world's slow stain" thought Clarissa holding her arm -stiff, for there are moments when it seems utterly futile (the glove was -drawn off leaving her arm flecked with powder)—simply one doesn't -believe, thought Clarissa, any more in God.</p> - -<p>The traffic suddenly roared; the silk stockings brightened. A -customer came in.</p> - -<p>"White gloves," she said, with some ring in her voice that Clarissa -remembered.</p> - -<p>It used, thought Clarissa, to be so simple. Down down through the air -came the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, hundreds of years ago, the -yew hedges looked so lovely with the diamond webs in the mist before -early church. But if Dick were to die to-morrow as for believing in -God—no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady -Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her -hand—Roden, her favourite, killed—she would go on. But why, if -one doesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove -in her hand. This girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.</p> - -<p>"Thirty shillings" said the shopwoman. "No, pardon me Madame, -thirty-five. The French gloves are more."</p> - -<p>For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa.</p> - -<p>And then the other customer took a glove, tugged it, and it split.</p> - -<p>"There!" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"A fault of the skin," said the grey-headed woman hurriedly. -"Sometimes a drop of acid in tanning. Try this pair, Madame."</p> - -<p>"But it's an awful swindle to ask two pound ten!"</p> - -<p>Clarissa looked at the lady; the lady looked at Clarissa.</p> - -<p>"Gloves have never been quite so reliable since the war" said the -shop-girl, apologizing, to Clarissa.</p> - -<p>But where had she seen the other lady?—elderly, with a frill under her -chin; wearing a black ribbon for gold eyeglasses; sensual, clever, like -a Sargent drawing. How one can tell from a voice when people are in the -habit, thought Clarissa, of making other people—"It's a shade too -tight" she said—obey. The shopwoman went off again. Clarissa was left -waiting. Fear no more she repeated, playing her finger on the counter. -Fear no more the heat o' the sun. Fear no more she repeated. There were -little brown spots on her arm. And the girl crawled like a snail. Thou -thy wordly task hast done. Thousands of young men had died that things -might go on. At last! Half an inch above the elbow; pearl buttons; five -and a quarter. My dear slow coach, thought Clarissa, do you think I can -sit here the whole morning? Now you'll take twenty-five minutes to bring -me my change!</p> - -<p>There was a violent explosion in the street outside. The shopwomen -cowered behind the counters. But Clarissa, sitting very up-right, smiled -at the other lady. "Miss Anstruther!" she exclaimed.</p> - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street, by Virginia Woolf - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET *** - -***** This file should be named 63107-h.htm or 63107-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/0/63107/ - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street - -Author: Virginia Woolf - -Release Date: September 3, 2020 [EBook #63107] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET *** - - - - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - - - - - -MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET - - -BY VIRGINIA WOOLF - - - - -THE - -DIAL - -[Illustration] - -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 eleven -o'clock and the unused hour was fresh as if issued to children on a -beach. But there was something solemn in the deliberate swing of the -repeated strokes; something stirring in the murmur of wheels and the -shuffle of footsteps. - -No doubt they were not all bound on errands of happiness. There is much -more 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 for -the care of H. M.'s Office of Works. Only for Mrs Dalloway the moment -was complete; for Mrs Dalloway June was fresh. A happy childhood--and it -was 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 caw -of rooks falling from ever so high, down down through the October -air--there is nothing to take the place of childhood. A leaf of mint -brings it back; or a cup with a blue ring. - -Poor little wretches, she sighed, and pressed forward. Oh, right under -the horses' noses, you little demon! and there she was left on the kerb -stretching her hand out, while Jimmy Dawes grinned on the further side. - -A charming woman, poised, eager, strangely white-haired for her pink -cheeks, so Scope Purvis, C. B., saw her as he hurried to his office. She -stiffened a little, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. Big Ben struck -the tenth; struck the eleventh stroke. The leaden circles dissolved in -the air. Pride held her erect, inheriting, handing on, acquainted with -discipline and with suffering. How people suffered, how they suffered, -she thought, thinking of Mrs Foxcroft at the Embassy last night decked -with jewels, eating her heart out, because that nice boy was dead, and -now the old Manor House (Durtnall's van passed) must go to a cousin. - -"Good morning to you!" said Hugh Whitbread raising his hat rather -extravagantly by the china shop, for they had known each other as -children. "Where are you off to?" - -"I love walking in London" said Mrs Dalloway. "Really it's better -than walking in the country!" - -"We've just come up" said Hugh Whitbread. "Unfortunately to see -doctors." - -"Milly?" said Mrs Dalloway, instantly compassionate. - -"Out of sorts," said Hugh Whitbread. "That sort of thing. Dick -all right?" - -"First rate!" said Clarissa. - -Of course, she thought, walking on, Milly is about my -age--fifty--fifty-two. So it is probably _that_, Hugh's manner had said -so, said it perfectly--dear old Hugh, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering -with amusement, with gratitude, with emotion, how shy, like a -brother--one would rather die than speak to one's brother--Hugh had -always been, when he was at Oxford, and came over, and perhaps one of -them (drat the thing!) couldn't ride. How then could women sit in -Parliament? How could they do things with men? For there is this -extraordinarily deep instinct, something inside one; you can't get over -it; it's no use trying; and men like Hugh respect it without our saying -it, which is what one loves, thought Clarissa, in dear old Hugh. - -She had passed through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of the -empty road with its thin trees Victoria's white mound, Victoria's -billowing motherliness, amplitude and homeliness, always ridiculous, yet -how sublime, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering Kensington Gardens and -the old lady in horn spectacles and being told by Nanny to stop dead -still and bow to the Queen. The flag flew above the Palace. The King and -Queen were back then. Dick had met her at lunch the other day--a -thoroughly nice woman. It matters so much to the poor, thought Clarissa, -and to the soldiers. A man in bronze stood heroically on a pedestal with -a gun on her left hand side--the South African war. It matters, thought -Mrs Dalloway walking towards Buckingham Palace. There it stood -four-square, in the broad sunshine, uncompromising, plain. But it was -character she thought; something inborn in the race; what Indians -respected. The Queen went to hospitals, opened bazaars--the Queen of -England, thought Clarissa, looking at the Palace. Already at this hour a -motor car passed out at the gates; soldiers saluted; the gates were -shut. And Clarissa, crossing the road, entered the Park, holding herself -upright. - -June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Westminster -with mottled breasts gave suck to their young. Quite respectable girls -lay stretched on the grass. An elderly man, stooping very stiffly, -picked up a crumpled paper, spread it out flat and flung it away. How -horrible! Last night at the Embassy Sir Dighton had said "If I want a -fellow to hold my horse, I have only to put up my hand." But the -religious question is far more serious than the economic, Sir Dighton -had said, which she thought extraordinarily interesting, from a man like -Sir Dighton. "Oh, the country will never know what it has lost" he had -said, talking, of his own accord, about dear Jack Stewart. - -She mounted the little hill lightly. The air stirred with energy. -Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Piccadilly and -Arlington Street and the Mall seemed to chafe the very air in the Park -and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, upon waves of that divine -vitality which Clarissa loved. To ride; to dance; she had adored all -that. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what to -do with one's life, for young people were amazingly priggish--oh, the -things one had said! But one had conviction. Middle age is the devil. -People like Jack'll never know that, she thought; for he never once -thought of death, never, they said, knew he was dying. And now can never -mourn--how did it go?--a head grown grey. . . . From the contagion of -the world's slow stain . . . have drunk their cup a round or two before. -. . . From the contagion of the world's slow stain! She held herself -upright. - -But how Jack would have shouted! Quoting Shelley, in Piccadilly! "You -want a pin," he would have said. He hated frumps. "My God Clarissa! My -God Clarissa!"--she could hear him now at the Devonshire House party, -about poor Sylvia Hunt in her amber necklace and that dowdy old silk. -Clarissa held herself upright for she had spoken aloud and now she was -in Piccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns, and the -balconies; passing club windows full of newspapers; passing old Lady -Burdett Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; and -Devonshire House, without its gilt leopards; and Claridge's, where she -must remember Dick wanted her to leave a card on Mrs Jepson or she would -be gone. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St James palace; -like a child's game with bricks; and now--she had passed Bond -Street--she was by Hatchard's book shop. The stream was -endless--endless--endless. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham--what was it? What a -duck, she thought, looking at the frontispiece of some book of memoirs -spread wide in the bow window, Sir Joshua perhaps or Romney; arch, -bright, demure; the sort of girl--like her own Elizabeth--the only -_real_ sort of girl. And there was that absurd book, Soapy Sponge, which -Jim used to quote by the yard; and Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew them -by heart. Phil and she had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and Dick -had said straight out at dinner that night that he had never heard of -her. Really, she had married him for that! He had never read -Shakespeare! There must be some little cheap book she could buy for -Milly--Cranford of course! Was there ever anything so enchanting as the -cow in petticoats? If only people had that sort of humour, that sort of -self-respect now, thought Clarissa, for she remembered the broad pages; -the sentences ending; the characters--how one talked about them as if -they were real. For all the great things one must go to the past, she -thought. From the contagion of the world's slow stain. . . . Fear no -more the heat o' the sun. . . . And now can never mourn, can never -mourn, she repeated, her eyes straying over the window; for it ran in -her head; the test of great poetry; the moderns had never written -anything one wanted to read about death, she thought; and turned. - -Omnibuses joined motor cars; motor cars vans; vans taxicabs; taxicabs -motor cars--here was an open motor car with a girl, alone. Up till four, -her feet tingling, I know, thought Clarissa, for the girl looked washed -out, half asleep, in the corner of the car after the dance. And another -car came; and another. No! No! No! Clarissa smiled good-naturedly. The -fat lady had taken every sort of trouble, but diamonds! orchids! at this -hour of the morning! No! No! No! The excellent policeman would, when the -time came, hold up his hand. Another motor car passed. How utterly -unattractive! Why should a girl of that age paint black round her eyes? -And a young man, with a girl, at this hour, when the country--The -admirable policeman raised his hand and Clarissa acknowledging his sway, -taking her time, crossed, walked towards Bond Street; saw the narrow -crooked street, the yellow banners; the thick notched telegraph wires -stretched across the sky. - -A hundred years ago her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry, who ran -away with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. Down Bond -Street the Parrys had walked for a hundred years, and might have met the -Dalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going up. Her father got his -clothes from Hill's. There was a roll of cloth in the window, and here -just one jar on a black table, incredibly expensive; like the thick pink -salmon on the ice block at the fishmonger's. The jewels were -exquisite--pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish, she thought, and -chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches which had been worn -on sea green satin by ladies with high head-dresses. But no good -looking! One must economize. She must go on past the picture dealer's -where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people had thrown -confetti--pink and blue--for a joke. If you had lived with pictures (and -it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa, passing the -Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke. - -The river of Bond Street was clogged. There, like a Queen at a -tournament, raised, regal, was Lady Bexborough. She sat in her carriage, -upright, alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose -at her wrist. She was in black, quite shabby, yet, thought Clarissa, how -extraordinarily it tells, breeding, self-respect, never saying a word -too much or letting people gossip; an astonishing friend; no one can -pick a hole in her after all these years, and now, there she is, thought -Clarissa, passing the Countess who waited powdered, perfectly still, and -Clarissa would have given anything to be like that, the mistress of -Clarefield, talking politics, like a man. But she never goes anywhere, -thought Clarissa, and it's quite useless to ask her, and the carriage -went on and Lady Bexborough was borne past like a Queen at a tournament, -though she had nothing to live for and the old man is failing and they -say she is sick of it all, thought Clarissa and the tears actually rose -to her eyes as she entered the shop. - -"Good morning" said Clarissa in her charming voice. "Gloves" she said -with her exquisite friendliness and putting her bag on the counter -began, very slowly, to undo the buttons. "White gloves" she said. "Above -the elbow" and she looked straight into the shopwoman's face--but this -was not the girl she remembered? She looked quite old. "These really -don't fit" said Clarissa. The shop girl looked at them. "Madame wears -bracelets?" Clarissa spread out her fingers. "Perhaps it's my rings." -And the girl took the grey gloves with her to the end of the counter. - -Yes, thought Clarissa, if it's the girl I remember she's twenty years -older. . . . There was only one other customer, sitting sideways at the -counter, her elbow poised, her bare hand drooping, vacant; like a figure -on a Japanese fan, thought Clarissa, too vacant perhaps, yet some men -would adore her. The lady shook her head sadly. Again the gloves were -too large. She turned round the glass. "Above the wrist" she reproached -the grey-headed woman; who looked and agreed. - -They waited; a clock ticked; Bond Street hummed, dulled, distant; the -woman went away holding gloves. "Above the wrist" said the lady, -mournfully, raising her voice. And she would have to order chairs, ices, -flowers, and cloak-room tickets, thought Clarissa. The people she didn't -want would come; the others wouldn't. She would stand by the door. They -sold stockings--silk stockings. A lady is known by her gloves and her -shoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silk -stockings quivering silver she looked at the lady, sloping shouldered, -her hand drooping, her bag slipping, her eyes vacantly on the floor. It -would be intolerable if dowdy women came to her party! Would one have -liked Keats if he had worn red socks? Oh, at last--she drew into the -counter and it flashed into her mind: - -"Do you remember before the war you had gloves with pearl buttons?" - -"French gloves, Madame?" - -"Yes, they were French" said Clarissa. The other lady rose very sadly -and took her bag, and looked at the gloves on the counter. But they were -all too large--always too large at the wrist. - -"With pearl buttons" said the shop-girl, who looked ever so much older. -She split the lengths of tissue paper apart on the counter. With pearl -buttons, thought Clarissa, perfectly simple--how French! - -"Madame's hands are so slender" said the shop girl, drawing the glove -firmly, smoothly, down over her rings. And Clarissa looked at her arm in -the looking glass. The glove hardly came to the elbow. Were there others -half an inch longer? Still it seemed tiresome to bother her--perhaps the -one day in the month, thought Clarissa, when it's an agony to stand. -"Oh, don't bother" she said. But the gloves were brought. - -"Don't you get fearfully tired" she said in her charming voice, -"standing? When d'you get your holiday?" - -"In September, Madame, when we're not so busy." - -When we're in the country thought Clarissa. Or shooting. She has a -fortnight at Brighton. In some stuffy lodging. The landlady takes the -sugar. Nothing would be easier than to send her to Mrs Lumley's right in -the country (and it was on the tip of her tongue). But then she -remembered how on their honeymoon Dick had shown her the folly of giving -impulsively. It was much more important, he said, to get trade with -China. Of course he was right. And she could feel the girl wouldn't like -to be given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Selling -gloves was her job. She had her own sorrows quite separate, "and now can -never mourn, can never mourn" the words ran in her head, "From the -contagion of the world's slow stain" thought Clarissa holding her arm -stiff, for there are moments when it seems utterly futile (the glove was -drawn off leaving her arm flecked with powder)--simply one doesn't -believe, thought Clarissa, any more in God. - -The traffic suddenly roared; the silk stockings brightened. A -customer came in. - -"White gloves," she said, with some ring in her voice that Clarissa -remembered. - -It used, thought Clarissa, to be so simple. Down down through the air -came the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, hundreds of years ago, the -yew hedges looked so lovely with the diamond webs in the mist before -early church. But if Dick were to die to-morrow as for believing in -God--no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady -Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her -hand--Roden, her favourite, killed--she would go on. But why, if one -doesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove -in her hand. This girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe. - -"Thirty shillings" said the shopwoman. "No, pardon me Madame, -thirty-five. The French gloves are more." - -For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa. - -And then the other customer took a glove, tugged it, and it split. - -"There!" she exclaimed. - -"A fault of the skin," said the grey-headed woman hurriedly. -"Sometimes a drop of acid in tanning. Try this pair, Madame." - -"But it's an awful swindle to ask two pound ten!" - -Clarissa looked at the lady; the lady looked at Clarissa. - -"Gloves have never been quite so reliable since the war" said the -shop-girl, apologizing, to Clarissa. - -But where had she seen the other lady?--elderly, with a frill under her -chin; wearing a black ribbon for gold eyeglasses; sensual, clever, like -a Sargent drawing. How one can tell from a voice when people are in the -habit, thought Clarissa, of making other people--"It's a shade too -tight" she said--obey. The shopwoman went off again. Clarissa was left -waiting. Fear no more she repeated, playing her finger on the counter. -Fear no more the heat o' the sun. Fear no more she repeated. There were -little brown spots on her arm. And the girl crawled like a snail. Thou -thy wordly task hast done. Thousands of young men had died that things -might go on. At last! Half an inch above the elbow; pearl buttons; five -and a quarter. My dear slow coach, thought Clarissa, do you think I can -sit here the whole morning? Now you'll take twenty-five minutes to bring -me my change! - -There was a violent explosion in the street outside. The shopwomen -cowered behind the counters. But Clarissa, sitting very up-right, smiled -at the other lady. "Miss Anstruther!" she exclaimed. - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street, by Virginia Woolf - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS DALLOWAY IN BOND STREET *** - -***** This file should be named 63107.txt or 63107.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/0/63107/ - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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