This concept of “sharing”—of giving and taking—is central to Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa rejected Peter because he wanted to share himself and wanted an equal return. Clarissa feared open, total involvement with a man. The concept was foreign and frightening; to her, sharing meant surrender. Marriage to Peter would have been a dangerous, immoral one-sided contract. Compare, however, the give-and-take aspect of Clarissa’s memory of Sally Seton. Clarissa gave her “soul” absolutely and exclusively to Sally. Sally gave her “soul” to Clarissa—but she offered, freely, just as much of herself to everyone else. When Sally kissed Clarissa, she gave the kiss impulsively. Clarissa, however, did not accept the kiss as an impulsive gesture. Clarissa accepted Sally’s kiss as a treasure; she accepted it as though a ceremony had been performed and a gift had been bestowed. Nevertheless, Clarissa does not seem to see anything unjust or wrong in this disproportionate exchange.
The memory of Sally’s kiss is still precious to Clarissa even though the incident happened long ago. Clarissa can remember that she thrilled in response to another human being’s warmth. But how she thrilled? that is another matter. Her emotional response today to that memory barely registers. The memory is a keepsake, like a dead flower; Clarissa has preserved it too completely for too long, just as she has preserved a certain virginal quality about herself. Her white hair, her narrow bed, the clean tight sheets, and the book she reads about Marbot’s retreat from Moscow are symbolic of the pristine, barren result of Clarissa’s decision not to attempt a vital male-female relationship.
Clarissa’s going upstairs is symbolic of her retreat from the challenge of living a full, adventurous life. Quiet, unassuming Richard Dalloway and his house are the principal peripheries of Clarissa’s refuge but, inside the Dalloway house, there is an even safer nook for Clarissa to hide away in. This is, appropriately, the attic room. In these private quarters of hers, as in her deepest depths, Clarissa can be all alone; here she will not be disturbed, even at night by her husband
We feel a sense of loss as Clarissa mounts the stairs and pauses midway. The soft June air and the barking of dogs flow in through an open window and remind us of what Clarissa denies herself when she nurtures and constructs protective barriers around herself. Barking dogs (fierce unpleasantness) are vanquished but then so is warm, mild June air (simple, natural happiness). And, as we shall see more clearly later, Clarissa has not really been successful in her attempt to live peacefully and harmoniously in her sanctuary. She chose to marry Richard, not Peter, to escape the “heat o’ the sun” and the “furious winter’s rages”—extremes of passion and unhappiness. But Clarissa did not escape entirely. Memories of Peter still fester, Elizabeth is not maturing into the image Clarissa has for her daughter, and Miss Kilman is like an awful monster that is gaining possession of Mrs. Dalloway through Elizabeth. There is a startling contrast between the public image of Mrs. Dalloway, the hostess, and the Mrs. Dalloway that Virginia Woolf shows us.
Like the dress she mends later, Clarissa shines in artificial light (the chandelier lights of parties she gives), but in real light she is revealed to be a white-haired woman beside a narrow, white-sheeted bed. In real light, Clarissa loses color—life’s coloring. We watch her contemplate her image in the mirror. Like a puppetmastcr, she purses the image’s lips and draws the composure tightly together—concealing all jealousies, vanities, and suspicions. Clarissa composes her features, exactly as she mends her dress—drawing the folds together, arranging the folds in patterns, disguising the rents in the appearance. Back and forth, in and out, Mrs. Dalloway draws a needle through the waves of green silk. The silk, green and wavy, is reminiscent of the sea—of the vastness and the freedom of the sea. Mrs. Dalloway “plunges” her hands into it. Yet, true to form, she collects and orders the fabric—exactly as she has attempted to order the form of her life.
