Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Forhimself,hewasabsurd.HisdemandsuponClarissa(hecouldseeitnow)wereabsurd.Heaskedimpossiblethings.Hemadeterriblescenes.Shewouldhaveacceptedhimstill,perhaps,ifhehadbeenlessabsurd.Sallythoughtso.Shewrotehimallthatsummerlongletters;howtheyhadtalkedofhim;howshehadpraisedhim,howClarissaburstintotears!Itwasanextraordinarysummer—allletters,scenes,telegrams—arrivingatBourtonearlyinthemorning,hangingabouttilltheservantswereup;appallingtête-à-têteswitholdMr.Parryatbreakfast;AuntHelenaformidablebutkind;Sallysweepinghimofffortalksinthevegetablegarden;Clarissainbedwithheadaches.

           Thefinalscene,theterriblescenewhichhebelievedhadmatteredmorethananythinginthewholeofhislife(itmightbeanexaggeration—butstillsoitdidseemnow)happenedatthreeo’clockintheafternoonofaveryhotday.Itwasatriflethatleduptoit—SallyatlunchsayingsomethingaboutDalloway,andcallinghim“MynameisDalloway”;whereuponClarissasuddenlystiffened,coloured,inawayshehad,andrappedoutsharply,“We’vehadenoughofthatfeeblejoke.”Thatwasall;butforhimitwaspreciselyasifshehadsaid,“I’monlyamusingmyselfwithyou;I’veanunderstandingwithRichardDalloway.”Sohetookit.Hehadnotsleptfornights.“It’sgottobefinishedonewayortheother,”hesaidtohimself.HesentanotetoherbySallyaskinghertomeethimbythefountainatthree.