Virginia Woolf: Mrs Dalloway

[Sybarite]

Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

A warm June morning in London in 1923. Clarissa, the eponymous Mrs Dalloway, is walking about the capital, shopping for flowers for one of her famous parties that she is giving that evening.

She muses as she walks; considers her husband and former suitors; contemplates old friends and summer holidays long gone.

Around her, people stop and gaze in awe as a car carrying a notable person – the Queen? The Prince of Wales? The Prime Minister? – passes by.

Nearby, Septimus Warren Smith and his wife walk too, on their way to see an eminent doctor who might be able to help with his increasingly erratic and unstable behaviour, frightening his wife as he threatens to kill himself.

And Peter Walsh has arrived home from India, with the wreckage of his relationships behind him, to find that, 30 years down the line, he is still in love with Clarissa.

In Virginia Woolf's novel, set over the course of the one day and culminating in the party, these characters spin their threads across the capital, sometimes interacting but, at other times, brushing past each other as they make their way toward the evening.

The prose is not instantly easy – it is intended to reflect the internal dialogue and Woolf creates the disjointedness of that superbly. But to read it requires a concentration to find the rhythm – the ebb and flow – of the language.

But what is it 'about'? Well, many things. Primarily, it's about ageing and coming to terms with that, and with one's own impending mortality. Clarissa fears her own post-menopausal decline; dreads her charms, her sexual being, fading and, with it, a part of her married life. She is jealous when she finds that her husband has been invited, without her, to a luncheon with Lady Bruton – even though Lady Bruton is older than she is – and considers it to be the beginning of the end.

For Peter, there are regrets – he feels that he has never recovered from loving Clarissa; that he has never loved again and that it has cast a shadow over his subsequent life.

During the novel, both come to accept the pleasure of maturity, of mature contemplation.

For Septimus, however, the reality is different. A veteran of WWI, he watched as friends were killed, yet proudly managed to become 'manly' and quash any emotional response. Now, five years after the Armistice, he is shell-shocked and seriously ill.

Below these stories there are countless layers. For Woolf, there is the issue of how we treat those with a mental illness. She herself suffered mental problems and eventually drowned herself rather than risk another bout of illness. She's scathing of the doctors who 'treat' Septimus. But she also highlights the continuing, at that time, problem of shell-shocked veterans (Siegfied Sassoon was a friend) and the way in which society as a whole, recovering from the war, tried to ignore it, to brush the issue under the carpet. She sees, it seems, suicide as a completely honourable option – and those who decry it as 'cowardly' are vilified in the novel.

Other characters might muse on the war, but it is in generalised terms, without any concrete understanding of the suffering that that meant. Statues of royal, military and political figures are noted frequently in the first part of the novel – they serve to remind of Britain's imperial might and success, not least to characters musing on such matters. But, as with the people of all classes who ogle at the passing car, doffing their hats, praising whichever figure they believe to be inside and feeling a patriotic glow, they also serve as a public curtain – as symbols of power and of nation and of patriotism that hide the Septimus Warren Smiths of the world from inconvenient view.

Patriotism is shallow – it is the acceptable face of the suffering that war creates. And it is what makes war acceptable.

The book is regarded as a feminist classic, primarily on the basis that Clarissa is read as a symbol of how restricted women were at the time. But Clarissa has chosen her path – and she had alternatives. And as Woolf makes clear many times, Clarissa is a snob. She frittered away what intellectual talents she had in throwing parties for the rich and famous and powerful. Sally, the independent friend of her youth, made different decisions and does not have to have the doubts that Clarissa does – yet those decisions led Sally to a very conventional life.

Reading the book from a certain kind of feminist perspective, was Woolf saying that Sally's existence was negative, in the same way that Clarissa's could be said to be? That seems to be stretching things considerably; there is nothing to indicate that Woolf thinks Sally has made bad choices – in which case, she seems to be saying that choices are crucial. As with suicide, this seems to be about assuming personal responsibility. Don't be conventional for the sake of it; don't live for the sake of it if that means being taken over – in effect, being controlled – by those who think that they know what you must do. These strands are not dissimilar. And they say that, even with restrictions, you still have the power of choice.

Women in the book are restricted – or have been. But Clarissa's daughter, Elizabeth, is told by Doris Kilman, her history teacher and close confidante, that she has many options for how she could spend her life – Kilman was restricted by her times and by her background, but again, also by her own choices, which she fails, as she wallows in her own bile, blaming all around her, to acknowledge.

There have been suggestions by many critics that there are elements of homosexuality in the book. There are hints – Sally kissed Clarissa in their youth and the latter still considers that the happiest moment of her life. But it doesn't see to me to be the dominant issue. Doris Kilman might be a lesbian – her relationship with her pupil is very intense and involves her own extreme religiosity.

But the prime issue in terms of relationships is one of how we relate to those around us. How they influence our lives.

It's a brilliant book. Astonishing both in terms of the prose and the themes. It requires some effort to read, but is incredibly rewarding. Nobody should be afraid of Virginia Woolf.

[Stewart]

Originally Posted by Sybarite

The prose is not instantly easy – it is intended to reflect the internal dialogue and Woolf creates the disjointedness of that superbly. But to read it requires a concentration to find the rhythm – the ebb and flow – of the language.

This, for me, was the most memorable, which I've been able to grab off the internet;

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, “Musing among the vegetables?”—was that it?—“I prefer men to cauliflowers”—was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.

But, beyond that, I could never finish this book at all. And I've tried a few times. I could never really latch on to what was happening, other than a sense of flowers are nice, which probably isn't that much of a reading. Still, it almost seems tame when compared to Woolf's The Waves, which goes like this:

‘I see a ring,’ said Bernard, ‘hanging above me. It quivers and hangs in a loop of light.’
‘I see a slab of pale yellow,’ said Susan, ‘spreading away until it meets a purple stripe.’
‘I hear a sound,’ said Rhoda, ‘cheep, chirp; cheep chirp; going up and down.’
‘I see a globe,’ said Neville, ‘hanging down in a drop against the enormous flanks of some hill.’
‘I see a crimson tassel,’ said Jinny, ‘twisted with gold threads.’
‘I hear something stamping,’ said Louis. ‘A great beast’s foot is chained. It stamps, and stamps, and stamps.’
‘Look at the spider’s web on the corner of the balcony,’ said Bernard. ‘It has beads of water on it, drops of white light.’
‘The leaves are gathered round the window like pointed ears,’ said Susan.
‘A shadow falls on the path,’ said Louis, ‘like an elbow bent.’
‘Islands of light are swimming on the grass,’ said Rhoda. ‘They have fallen through the trees.’

[Sybarite]

I bought it in June and then picked it up quite quickly. But put it down equally quickly – I'd read about four pages and felt that I could make head nor tale of it. But when I picked it up this time, it was as though I'd had some form of universal translator popped in my head from the get go. I knew, instantly, what it was on about.

I started to see the themes really early and, from then on, I had no difficulty with it (although it still required effort). I really do think that it is that old-fashioned concept – 'a novel of ideas'.

But I reiterate ... I didn't find it an easy read. I would say that it was the least easy read I've had this year. But it was massively rewarding. And, at this point in time, I have no doubt that I will read it again – and probably find different things in it.

[rabbitfast]

I had to read Mrs. Dalloway for class and I loved it. I did find it a little diffficult to read at the beginning but really didn't have much of a problem as I went on...but then I also had an awesome professor and that helped.

Sybarite, as you say, there are countless layers and I guess this should not come as much of a surprise given that that's pretty typical of modernist works. I found it interesting that Woolf was so critical of Joyce for setting Ulysses in a single day and then copied him in Mrs. Dalloway. I read some of her diary entries...she called Joyce a "he-goat." But then...she did seem kind of upset when he died.

You're also right to point out the shell-shock issue with Septimus. I guess now it's called PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder)...I wonder how aware of it people really are even today.

"If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."

~ Wilfred Owen, 1920

[Sybarite]

Originally Posted by rabbitfast

... You're also right to point out the shell-shock issue with Septimus. I guess now it's called PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder)...I wonder how aware of it people really are even today...

You're absolutely right that it's still not given proper and serious attention today by many – although I think it's less in the armed services now with what Woolf would have called 'shellshock' and more complaints that I hear about people in other areas of work (fire and police services etc) where personnel need counselling after particularly stressful experiences. In the UK at least, I've certainly heard people whinging about how, if you go into such a job, you should know what to expect (as if you could 'know what to expect and know how to put it out of your mind if you've just had to go into the blown apart carriages on 7/7, for instance). Or that – perhaps even more absurdly – that 'in the olden days we just got on with it – we didn't have all that counselling nonsense'.

In terms of military veterans, in the UK at least, it's more a question of ignoring things such as Gulf War Syndrome (or trying to downplay it), and treating veterans pretty dismally anyway.

[titania7]

Originally Posted by Sybarite

It's a brilliant book.

...and this is a brilliant review, Sybarite. You've made me want to re-read the book.
It's been 10+ years since I read it the first time, and it's about time for another perusal. Virginia Woolf's world of prose can be a bit of a revelation for the "uninitiated." I recall starting Mrs. Dalloway two times before I actually read it from beginning to end. Like you, I had a bit of difficulty "getting into" it. I had a copy from the library and returned it, re-thought my choice, checked it out again, and eventually read it. After finishing Mrs. Dalloway, I went on to read To The Lighthouse, Orlando, The Waves, and Night and Day.

It's interesting to reflect upon what Virginia Woolf said as she was writing Mrs. Dalloway, when speaking of her unique method of "characterization": "I dig out caves behind my characters" (from her diary). These "caves" disclose the past while simultaneously conveying her characters' reactions to current events. While so many writers' books are action-driven, the "action" in Mrs. Dalloway takes place within the minds of her characters.

It's tragic that mental illness was so misunderstood in Woolf's day. We can only speculate about how many more masterpieces she might have created had it not been for her suicide.

~Titania

"Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book
known to him by heart and his friends can only read
the title."
~Virginia Woolf

[rabbitfast]

Titania, great point about the masterpieces VW could have produced had she not committed suicide...Not only was she trying to escape the torment of her mental illness but I believe also, in large part, because of war...Keeping in mind what was happening all over Europe at the time, she was convinved that the Nazis would get their hands on her husband...

Sybarite, once again, I agree with you regarding the PTSD...Most people don't seem to be aware of just how debilitating it is. Of course, people who are policemen, firefighters etc. are probably at higher risk...but ordinary people get PTSD as well. One can get it from being exposed pretty much to any trauma...sudden death of a close relative or friend, car accident, rape, witnessing terrorist attacks, being a civilian in an armed conflict or even hearing about someone close being in mortal danger etc.

Keeping in mind VW's past...I wonder if it's possible that maybe she had PTSD...

Also re Mrs. Dalloway...I thought that Michael Cunningham's The Hours is a pretty decent rewrite of VW's classic.

[Eric]

"Mrs Dalloway" is next on my Woolf-read list. I've only got one small chapter of "Jacob's Room" to go, and will report on that novel on a separate thread. I have a rather cosy fat paperback which includes much of her major prose (excluding "The Voyage Out", "The Years"), and when sitting in an armchair this is ideal. But for reading in bed, a one-novel book is easier to handle.

I think she's a brilliant stylist in that she sheds a new light on daily minutiæ, but she also refers to the greater scheme of things: relationships, politics, even the world beyond London.

I'll post again here when I've read "Mrs Dalloway".