Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I wasn’t very far behind her. Just a few paces while she walked her way through the roads to the flower shop. She liked giving parties. I had asked her why. I find it very, very dangerous to live even one day, she once said. What could she possibly mean by that? I contemplated. To her, her body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing. She only thought of herself as being Mrs. Richard Dalloway. Is this the reason why she didn’t marry Peter? Would Peter have been able to make her feel like just Mrs. Peter Walsh?

Now what do I see there? Who is greeting Clarissa on the street? Oh, it is Hugh Whitbread, her old friend! I remember she doesn’t particularly like Hugh, or does she? I gather she only likes him because he reminds her of her youth, implicitly perhaps of Peter, whom she did not marry, whom she loved. She did not marry him because life would not have been easier with him. Happier? Perhaps. But no, not even happier, for Peter didn’t want her like Richard did. He wanted her in and out, her whole being, her thoughts. Her thoughts! What of that? Well, perhaps everything. She doesn’t believe in religion and not even in God. She wants to do good for the sake of goodness. Giving parties is the only good thing she can do for the distraught people, to provide them with some light moments; some respite from the life whose nothingness scares her. Peter wouldn’t have let her be this way. He would have wanted her to talk about everything, even the nothingness, to live in the knowledge of it. It would have been scarier.

She is back home now. My eyes follow her movements invariably. I cannot get my mind off her. She has, with all her manners of doing the routine business, captivated my thoughts. I am astonished at the radiant quietness on her face while she sits down to read the message on telephone pad; composed, as if this awareness of being in this house, as being Mrs. Dalloway, looking after the daily chores, after the preparations for her party, gives a meaning to her existence, away from all the worries of the world, away because it doesn’t let her think of the Armenians or Albanians, for why should they matter, why when she understands that humans are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship.

Someone’s at the door now. The bell has rung just as Clarissa is mending her dress. Oh would she like to be disturbed now? But look who’s there! It’s Peter Walsh! I am excited to see Peter at last! I wonder what they will talk about after so many years. They still love each other. You can tell by the way they look at each other; by the way they try to talk, bringing everything in their conversation except for themselves, as they are, for each other. And they both know it. And they perfectly understand why they didn’t marry. Of course it would have ruined them, for Clarissa wanted to enjoy life, for what else was there to do in life where ruffian Gods hurt humans. And perhaps, she knew that Peter would drain her out of her vitality, her enthusiasm for the good things of life, like meeting people and making them feel good. Oh no, she doesn’t regret her decision of marrying Richard.

But ah, the thoughts! I wonder what is there which still ties her to Peter. Perhaps the knowledge that with everything going on around in the world, with her being Mrs. Dalloway, moving towards that in life which is inevitable, her thoughts can still return to peace with him. Yes, it is. But she still, at times, needs to escape those thoughts. Does it need courage to do that or selfishness or both? Possibly both, engaging each in term alternatively when required, when necessary, so that, there she stands as Clarissa sometimes, and at other, as Mrs. Dalloway. Both together complete her.


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