Mabel had her first serious suspicion that something was wrong as she took her cloak off and Mrs. Barnet, while handing her the mirror and touching1 the brushes and thus drawing her attention, perhaps rather markedly, to all the appliances for tidying and improving hair, complexion2, clothes, which existed on the dressing3 table, confirmed the suspicion — that it was not right, not quite right, which growing stronger as she went upstairs and springing at her, with conviction as she greeted Clarissa Dalloway, she went straight to the far end of the room, to a shaded corner where a looking-glass hung and looked. No! It was not RIGHT. And at once the misery4 which she always tried to hide, the profound dissatisfaction — the sense she had had, ever since she was a child, of being inferior to other people — set upon her, relentlessly5, remorselessly, with an intensity6 which she could not beat off, as she would when she woke at night at home, by reading Borrow or Scott; for oh these men, oh these women, all were thinking —“What’s Mabel wearing? What a fright she looks! What a hideous7 new dress!”— their eyelids8 flickering9 as they came up and then their lids shutting rather tight. It was her own appalling10 inadequacy11; her cowardice12; her mean, water-sprinkled blood that depressed13 her. And at once the whole of the room where, for ever so many hours, she had planned with the little dressmaker how it was to go, seemed sordid14, repulsive15; and her own drawing-room so shabby, and herself, going out, puffed16 up with vanity as she touched the letters on the hall table and said: “How dull!” to show off — all this now seemed unutterably silly, paltry17, and provincial18. All this had been absolutely destroyed, shown up, exploded, the moment she came into Mrs. Dalloway’s drawing-room.
What she had thought that evening when, sitting over the teacups, Mrs. Dalloway’s invitation came, was that, of course, she could not be fashionable. It was absurd to pretend it even — fashion meant cut, meant style, meant thirty guineas at least — but why not be original? Why not be herself, anyhow? And, getting up, she had taken that old fashion book of her mother’s, a Paris fashion book of the time of the Empire, and had thought how much prettier, more dignified19, and more womanly they were then, and so set herself — oh, it was foolish — trying to be like them, pluming20 herself in fact, upon being modest and old-fashioned, and very charming, giving herself up, no doubt about it, to an orgy of self-love, which deserved to be chastised21, and so rigged herself out like this.
But she dared not look in the glass. She could not face the whole horror — the pale yellow, idiotically old-fashioned silk dress with its long skirt and its high sleeves and its waist and all the things that looked so charming in the fashion book, but not on her, not among all these ordinary people. She felt like a dressmaker’s dummy22 standing23 there, for young people to stick pins into.
“But, my dear, it’s perfectly24 charming!” Rose Shaw said, looking her up and down with that little satirical pucker25 of the lips which she expected — Rose herself being dressed in the height of the fashion, precisely26 like everybody else, always.
We are all like flies trying to crawl over the edge of the saucer, Mabel thought, and repeated the phrase as if she were crossing herself, as if she were trying to find some spell to annul27 this pain, to make this agony endurable. Tags of Shakespeare, lines from books she had read ages ago, suddenly came to her when she was in agony, and she repeated them over and over again. “Flies trying to crawl,” she repeated. If she could say that over often enough and make herself see the flies, she would become numb28, chill, frozen, dumb. Now she could see flies crawling slowly out of a saucer of milk with their wings stuck together; and she strained and strained (standing in front of the looking-glass, listening to Rose Shaw) to make herself see Rose Shaw and all the other people there as flies, trying to hoist29 themselves out of something, or into something, meagre, insignificant30, toiling31 flies. But she could not see them like that, not other people. She saw herself like that — she was a fly, but the others were dragonflies, butterflies, beautiful insects, dancing, fluttering, skimming, while she alone dragged herself up out of the saucer. (Envy and spite, the most detestable of the vices32, were her chief faults.)
“I feel like some dowdy33, decrepit34, horribly dingy35 old fly,” she said, making Robert Haydon stop just to hear her say that, just to reassure36 herself by furbishing up a poor weak-kneed phrase and so showing how detached she was, how witty37, that she did not feel in the least out of anything. And, of course, Robert Haydon answered something, quite polite, quite insincere, which she saw through instantly, and said to herself, directly he went (again from some book), “Lies, lies, lies!” For a party makes things either much more real, or much less real, she thought; she saw in a flash to the bottom of Robert Haydon’s heart; she saw through everything. She saw the truth. THIS was true, this drawing-room, this self, and the other false. Miss Milan’s little workroom was really terribly hot, stuffy38, sordid. It smelt39 of clothes and cabbage cooking; and yet, when Miss Milan put the glass in her hand, and she looked at herself with the dress on, finished, an extraordinary bliss40 shot through her heart. Suffused41 with light, she sprang into existence. Rid of cares and wrinkles, what she had dreamed of herself was there — a beautiful woman. just for a second (she had not dared look longer, Miss Milan wanted to know about the length of the skirt), there looked at her, framed in the scrolloping mahogany, a grey-white, mysteriously smiling, charming girl, the core of herself, the soul of herself; and it was not vanity only, not only self-love that made her think it good, tender, and true. Miss Milan said that the skirt could not well be longer; if anything the skirt, said Miss Milan, puckering42 her forehead, considering with all her wits about her, must be shorter; and she felt, suddenly, honestly, full of love for Miss Milan, much, much fonder of Miss Milan than of any one in the whole world, and could have cried for pity that she should be crawling on the floor with her mouth full of pins, and her face red and her eyes bulging43 — that one human being should be doing this for another, and she saw them all as human beings merely, and herself going off to her party, and Miss Milan pulling the cover over the canary’s cage, or letting him pick a hemp-seed from between her lips, and the thought of it, of this side of human nature and its patience and its endurance and its being content with such miserable44, scanty45, sordid, little pleasures filled her eyes with tears.
And now the whole thing had vanished. The dress, the room, the love, the pity, the scrolloping looking-glass, and the canary’s cage — all had vanished, and here she was in a corner of Mrs. Dalloway’s drawing-room, suffering tortures, woken wide awake to reality.
But it was all so paltry, weak-blooded, and petty-minded to care so much at her age with two children, to be still so utterly46 dependent on people’s opinions and not have principles or convictions, not to be able to say as other people did, “There’s Shakespeare! There’s death! We’re all weevils in a captain’s biscuit”— or whatever it was that people did say.
She faced herself straight in the glass; she pecked at her left shoulder; she issued out into the room, as if spears were thrown at her yellow dress from all sides. But instead of looking fierce or tragic47, as Rose Shaw would have done — Rose would have looked like Boadicea — she looked foolish and self-conscious, and simpered like a schoolgirl and slouched across the room, positively48 slinking, as if she were a beaten mongrel, and looked at a picture, an engraving49. As if one went to a party to look at a picture! Everybody knew why she did it — it was from shame, from humiliation50.
“Now the fly’s in the saucer,” she said to herself, “right in the middle, and can’t get out, and the milk,” she thought, rigidly51 staring at the picture, “is sticking its wings together.”
“It’s so old-fashioned,” she said to Charles Burt, making him stop (which by itself he hated) on his way to talk to some one else.
She meant, or she tried to make herself think that she meant, that it was the picture and not her dress, that was old-fashioned. And one word of praise, one word of affection from Charles would have made all the difference to her at the moment. If he had only said, “Mabel, you’re looking charming to-night!” it would have changed her life. But then she ought to have been truthful52 and direct. Charles said nothing of the kind, of course. He was malice53 itself. He always saw through one, especially if one were feeling particularly mean, paltry, or feeble-minded.
“Mabel’s got a new dress!” he said, and the poor fly was absolutely shoved into the middle of the saucer. Really, he would like her to drown, she believed. He had no heart, no fundamental kindness, only a veneer54 of friendliness55. Miss Milan was much more real, much kinder. If only one could feel that and stick to it, always. “Why,” she asked herself — replying to Charles much too pertly, letting him see that she was out of temper, or “ruffled57” as he called it (“Rather ruffled?” he said and went on to laugh at her with some woman over there)—“Why,” she asked herself, “can’t I feel one thing always, feel quite sure that Miss Milan is right, and Charles wrong and stick to it, feel sure about the canary and pity and love and not be whipped all round in a second by coming into a room full of people?” It was her odious58, weak, vacillating character again, always giving at the critical moment and not being seriously interested in conchology, etymology59, botany, archeology, cutting up potatoes and watching them fructify60 like Mary Dennis, like Violet Searle.
Then Mrs. Holman, seeing her standing there, bore down upon her. Of course a thing like a dress was beneath Mrs. Holman’s notice, with her family always tumbling downstairs or having the scarlet61 fever. Could Mabel tell her if Elmthorpe was ever let for August and September? Oh, it was a conversation that bored her unutterably! — it made her furious to be treated like a house agent or a messenger boy, to be made use of. Not to have value, that was it, she thought, trying to grasp something hard, something real, while she tried to answer sensibly about the bathroom and the south aspect and the hot water to the top of the house; and all the time she could see little bits of her yellow dress in the round looking-glass which made them all the size of boot-buttons or tadpoles62; and it was amazing to think how much humiliation and agony and self-loathing and effort and passionate63 ups and downs of feeling were contained in a thing the size of a threepenny bit. And what was still odder, this thing, this Mabel Waring, was separate, quite disconnected; and though Mrs. Holman (the black button) was leaning forward and telling her how her eldest64 boy had strained his heart running, she could see her, too, quite detached in the looking-glass, and it was impossible that the black dot, leaning forward, gesticulating, should make the yellow dot, sitting solitary65, self-centred, feel what the black dot was feeling, yet they pretended.
“So impossible to keep boys quiet”— that was the kind of thing one said.
And Mrs. Holman, who could never get enough sympathy and snatched what little there was greedily, as if it were her right (but she deserved much more for there was her little girl who had come down this morning with a swollen66 knee-joint), took this miserable offering and looked at it suspiciously, grudgingly67, as if it were a halfpenny when it ought to have been a pound and put it away in her purse, must put up with it, mean and miserly though it was, times being hard, so very hard; and on she went, creaking, injured Mrs. Holman, about the girl with the swollen joints68. Ah, it was tragic, this greed, this clamour of human beings, like a row of cormorants69, barking and flapping their wings for sympathy — it was tragic, could one have felt it and not merely pretended to feel it!
But in her yellow dress to-night she could not wring70 out one drop more; she wanted it all, all for herself. She knew (she kept on looking into the glass, dipping into that dreadfully showing-up blue pool) that she was condemned71, despised, left like this in a backwater, because of her being like this a feeble, vacillating creature; and it seemed to her that the yellow dress was a penance72 which she had deserved, and if she had been dressed like Rose Shaw, in lovely, clinging green with a ruffle56 of swansdown, she would have deserved that; and she thought that there was no escape for her — none whatever. But it was not her fault altogether, after all. It was being one of a family of ten; never having money enough, always skimping73 and paring; and her mother carrying great cans, and the linoleum74 worn on the stair edges, and one sordid little domestic tragedy after another — nothing catastrophic, the sheep farm failing, but not utterly; her eldest brother marrying beneath him but not very much — there was no romance, nothing extreme about them all. They petered out respectably in seaside resorts; every watering-place had one of her aunts even now asleep in some lodging75 with the front windows not quite facing the sea. That was so like them — they had to squint76 at things always. And she had done the same — she was just like her aunts. For all her dreams of living in India, married to some hero like Sir Henry Lawrence, some empire builder (still the sight of a native in a turban filled her with romance), she had failed utterly. She had married Hubert, with his safe, permanent underling’s job in the Law Courts, and they managed tolerably in a smallish house, without proper maids, and hash when she was alone or just bread and butter, but now and then — Mrs. Holman was off, thinking her the most dried-up, unsympathetic twig77 she had ever met, absurdly dressed, too, and would tell every one about Mabel’s fantastic appearance — now and then, thought Mabel Waring, left alone on the blue sofa, punching the cushion in order to look occupied, for she would not join Charles Burt and Rose Shaw, chattering78 like magpies79 and perhaps laughing at her by the fireplace — now and then, there did come to her delicious moments, reading the other night in bed, for instance, or down by the sea on the sand in the sun, at Easter — let her recall it — a great tuft of pale sand-grass standing all twisted like a shock of spears against the sky, which was blue like a smooth china egg, so firm, so hard, and then the melody of the waves —“Hush, hush,” they said, and the children’s shouts paddling — yes, it was a divine moment, and there she lay, she felt, in the hand of the Goddess who was the world; rather a hard-hearted, but very beautiful Goddess, a little lamb laid on the altar (one did think these silly things, and it didn’t matter so long as one never said them). And also with Hubert sometimes she had quite unexpectedly — carving80 the mutton for Sunday lunch, for no reason, opening a letter, coming into a room — divine moments, when she said to herself (for she would never say this to anybody else), “This is it. This has happened. This is it!” And the other way about it was equally surprising — that is, when everything was arranged — music, weather, holidays, every reason for happiness was there — then nothing happened at all. One wasn’t happy. It was flat, just flat, that was all.
Her wretched self again, no doubt! She had always been a fretful, weak, unsatisfactory mother, a wobbly wife, lolling about in a kind of twilight81 existence with nothing very clear or very bold, or more one thing than another, like all her brothers and sisters, except perhaps Herbert — they were all the same poor water-veined creatures who did nothing. Then in the midst of this creeping, crawling life, suddenly she was on the crest82 of a wave. That wretched fly — where had she read the story that kept coming into her mind about the fly and the saucer? — struggled out. Yes, she had those moments. But now that she was forty, they might come more and more seldom. By degrees she would cease to struggle any more. But that was deplorable! That was not to be endured! That made her feel ashamed of herself!
She would go to the London Library to-morrow. She would find some wonderful, helpful, astonishing book, quite by chance, a book by a clergyman, by an American no one had ever heard of; or she would walk down the Strand83 and drop, accidentally, into a hall where a miner was telling about the life in the pit, and suddenly she would become a new person. She would be absolutely transformed. She would wear a uniform; she would be called Sister Somebody; she would never give a thought to clothes again. And for ever after she would be perfectly clear about Charles Burt and Miss Milan and this room and that room; and it would be always, day after day, as if she were lying in the sun or carving the mutton. It would be it!
So she got up from the blue sofa, and the yellow button in the looking-glass got up too, and she waved her hand to Charles and Rose to show them she did not depend on them one scrap84, and the yellow button moved out of the looking-glass, and all the spears were gathered into her breast as she walked towards Mrs. Dalloway and said “Good night.”
“But it’s top early to go,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who was always so charming.
“I’m afraid I must,” said Mabel Waring. “But,” she added in her weak, wobbly voice which only sounded ridiculous when she tried to strengthen it, “I have enjoyed myself enormously.”
‘I have enjoyed myself,” she said to Mr. Dalloway, whom she met on the stairs.
“Lies, lies, lies!” she said to herself, going downstairs, and “Right in the saucer!” she said to herself as she thanked Mrs. Barnet for helping85 her and wrapped herself, round and round and round, in the Chinese cloak she had worn these twenty years.
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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pluming
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| 用羽毛装饰（plume的现在分词形式） | |
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chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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54
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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fructify
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| v.结果实；使土地肥沃 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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62
tadpoles
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| n.蝌蚪( tadpole的名词复数 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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66
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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67
grudgingly
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68
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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69
cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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70
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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71
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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73
skimping
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| v.少用( skimp的现在分词 )；少给；克扣；节省 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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75
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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76
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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79
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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80
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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81
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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82
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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83
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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84
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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85
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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