Had she married Peter, Clarissa says, he would have insisted on sharing; she then changes thoughts and recalls their break-up and the gossip she heard later about Peter’s marrying an Indian woman. Even in her thoughts, Clarissa is cautious about too thoroughly considering Peter, as if even that would be too much “sharing.” Clarissa is terribly fearful of the implications of sharing. As we shall see later, Clarissa equates sharing (with a man) with surrender. And Peter would have insisted on sharing an intimacy with Clarissa—and not intimacy in a sexual sense only. Peter would have insisted on a basic, defenses-down, baring-of-souls kind of intimacy—the kind of intimacy that exists between absolute friends. It was this exchange, this possession of one another’s most secret depths, which frightened Clarissa. Marrying Peter would have cost Clarissa all private thoughts and feelings. This may seem to be a paltry sort of consideration but it is, in fact, more important than had Clarissa only had qualms about giving in to Peter sexually. Clarissa is considering basic communication between husband and wife—basic honesty, basic compassionate intimacy. Peter would have demanded that Clarissa release all her hopes and fears and joys to him—and he would reciprocate. This is a far more dangerous and sustained exchange than that of sex.
Dangerous, in fact, is the word Clarissa uses to describe the act of living. Were she to have chosen Peter, Clarissa would have had to lose her balance; she would have had to dare make mistakes. She chose security and safety in Richard Dalloway. Yet the spirit in Clarissa that responded to Peter, before rationality denied him to her, is still alive. In this morning’s walk there is evidence of this responsive streak—one that Clarissa is still trying to discipline. As she thrills to the morning’s light, sharp freshness, so like “the kiss of a wave”; as she tenses, anticipating the striking of Big Ben; and as she hears the cacophonous noise of trucks and cars and vendors magically harmonized, Clarissa scolds herself for foolishly succumbing to such sensual delight. She wonders why she loves London’s bustle so.
The answer is simple: Clarissa, by nature, is responsive and spontaneous but she has learned to conceal her responses and feelings. She allows a loose rein to her senses but only in this way: London is a collection of noises, colors, smells, and people, and Clarissa can walk amidst them, can savor them, yet not have to merge with them. She can smile lovingly, and ironically, at the follies of old ladies and at the follies of young lovers, but she does so with a love that keeps its distance. She appreciates London as she might appreciate a lovely, familiar painting come to life. London—a living work of art—is like a salve to Clarissa’s feeling of isolation and to the post-effects of her illness. Clarissa’s doctors said that her heart might have been affected by influenza, but this is only another way that Virginia Woolf underscores for us the fact that, figuratively, Clarissa’s heart has already been weakened. It was weakened by disuse long before influenza felled her. Clarissa has been too careful with her heart’s affection.
Mrs. Dalloway is not a simple person. She is most complex. She is fascinating in that she realizes that her “self” changes, that it modifies to a certain degree, depending on whom she is with. With Richard, she is a little different than she is with Elizabeth; and she is different in another way when she is with Hugh Whitbread. Unlike Clarissa, most people think that they are always the same, regardless of whom they are with. In truth, few people remain constant: we all change, reacting with different parts of our personality to the many different people we spend time with.
Mrs. Dalloway also appraises people differently than most people do. When she meets Hugh Whitbread, she comments on his “well covered ... handsome, perfectly upholstered” body. She is referring rather novelly to how Hugh’s clothes fit. But, besides Clarissa’s showing us a different way of looking at someone, we learn more about Clarissa. She thinks of Hugh’s clothes as she thinks of her own clothes and body: as covering, distinct from the inner self under the “upholstery.” This idea of a body’s being upholstered is unusual and interesting, and it reinforces our notions about Clarissa’s complexity. Already she has remarked about feeling “outside, looking on.” She walks through life; she is inside her body, yet she feels apart from life and alien to her body. Not only does she have these feelings but she is lucid about them—and Clarissa is not a learned woman. She is not a college graduate; she has little formal education: she is merely a woman, sensitive and intuitive—with a special sensibility. Her emotions are very intense despite the fact that she would like them, like her world, to be carefully guarded and within boundaries. She would like her world of marriage and motherhood to be cool and quiet like the cool and serene park she crosses through this morning.
Matters are often beyond Clarissa’s control, however. She has tried to order her life by marrying Richard Dalloway, but lately she has been near death, and lately the world has been torn by the Great War. Now both she and the world seem to be healing. The king and queen are in the palace and are giving a party tonight—just as Clarissa will be giving a party tonight. These should be happy moments—and some are—but Clarissa’s joys cannot fend off certain unhappy thoughts—the intense feelings of hatred, for instance, that she has for Miss Kilman, her daughter’s tutor.
Why Clarissa hates Miss Kilman is not entirely clear but already we can guess at a little: Clarissa was very ill and her daughter Elizabeth represents youth, the essence of aliveness, and the extension of Clarissa. Clarissa has never “possessed” Elizabeth, nor has Richard, but now, to Clarissa, it seems that Miss Kilman is devouring Elizabeth. This concept of owning, that was so odious about Peter’s personality, has dangerously reasserted itself just when Mrs. Dalloway is growing old and the world is changing and she becoming a stranger to it.
And so, worrying about Miss Kilman, though delighting in Bond Street, Mrs. Dalloway reaches the flower shop. It has been an unusual walk. This first scene is one of great contrasts—one of active sensual excitement but also of intermittent reflection. Mrs. Dalloway has walked through the noisy streets of London, entered a quiet park, re-emerged into the noise and color, and has slipped into a peaceful, sweet-smelling flower shop. She has thought about the present, about the past, and about the present again. The back-and-forth narrative, and this back-and-forth, in-and-out current of noise and quiet have suggested the rhythm of waves, their ebb and flow. Virginia Woolf is a remarkable architect: Clarissa has already mentioned that the day felt as though it carried the kiss of a wave; she has remembered the rising and falling of the rooks—very much like waves; Big Ben booms out hours one after another, irrevocably—very much like waves; life, she says, builds up, tumbles, then creates afresh—very much like waves. In this scene and throughout the novel the changes of time, the changes of scenes, and the motif of water—the sea and the waves—are all carefully synthesized.
