Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the gloves herself.

Big Ben was ringing as she stepped out onto the street. It was eleven o'clock, and the unspent hour felt as fresh as if it were given to kids on a beach. But there was something serious in the steady rhythm of the repeated chimes; something moving in the sound of wheels and the shuffle of footsteps.

No doubt not everyone was out seeking happiness. There's a lot more to us than just walking the streets of Westminster. Big Ben would just be a bunch of rusty steel rods if it weren’t for the care of H. M.'s Office of Works. For Mrs. Dalloway, though, the moment was perfect; for Mrs. Dalloway, June felt fresh. A happy childhood—and it wasn't just his daughters who thought Justin Parry was a great guy (though he was weak on the Bench); flowers in the evening, smoke rising; the sound of rooks calling out as they fell from the sky, down through the October air—nothing can replace childhood. A mint leaf brings it all back; or a cup with a blue ring.

Poor little wretches, she sighed, and moved ahead. Oh, right under the horses' noses, you little troublemaker! and there she was left on the curb reaching out her hand, while Jimmy Dawes smirked on the other side.

A charming woman, composed and eager, oddly white-haired for her rosy cheeks, was how Scope Purvis, C. B., saw her as he rushed to his office. She tensed slightly, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. Big Ben chimed ten, then eleven. The heavy sounds faded into the air. Pride kept her upright, inheriting and passing on, familiar with discipline and pain. How people suffered, she thought, recalling Mrs. Foxcroft at the Embassy last night, adorned in jewels, heartbroken because that nice boy was dead, and now the old Manor House (Durtnall's van passed) would go to a cousin.

"Good morning!" said Hugh Whitbread, lifting his hat a bit dramatically by the china shop, since they had known each other since childhood. "Where are you headed?"

"I love walking in London," Mrs. Dalloway said. "Honestly, it's better than walking in the countryside!"

"We've just arrived," said Hugh Whitbread. "Unfortunately, to see doctors."

"Milly?" Mrs. Dalloway said, immediately feeling compassion.

"Not feeling great," said Hugh Whitbread. "You know, that kind of thing. Is Dick okay?"

"Awesome!" said Clarissa.

Of course, she thought as she walked on, Milly is about my age—fifty—fifty-two. So it’s probably that, Hugh's behavior had indicated it perfectly—dear old Hugh, Mrs. Dalloway mused with a mix of amusement, gratitude, and emotion, remembering how shy he had always been, like a brother—one would rather die than chat with one's brother—when he was at Oxford and came over, and maybe one of them (damn it!) couldn’t ride. How then could women sit in Parliament? How could they do things with men? Because there’s this incredibly deep instinct, something within; you can’t ignore it; there’s no point in trying; and men like Hugh respect it without us having to say a word, which is what one loves, thought Clarissa, in dear old Hugh.

She had walked through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of the empty road lined with thin trees, Victoria's white mound, Victoria's nurturing presence, its size and comfort, always a bit ridiculous, yet how beautiful, thought Mrs. Dalloway, recalling Kensington Gardens and the old lady with horn-rimmed glasses telling her to stand still and bow to the Queen. The flag was flying above the Palace. The King and Queen were back then. Dick had met her for lunch the other day—a really nice woman. It matters so much to the less fortunate, thought Clarissa, and to the soldiers. A bronze statue stood heroically on a pedestal with a gun on her left—the South African War. It matters, thought Mrs. Dalloway as she walked toward Buckingham Palace. There it was, solid, in the bright sunshine, unyielding and straightforward. But it was character, she thought; something inherent in the people; what Indians respected. The Queen visited hospitals, opened bazaars—the Queen of England, thought Clarissa, gazing at the Palace. Even at this hour, a car passed through the gates; soldiers saluted; the gates were closed. And Clarissa, crossing the road, entered the Park, holding her head high.

June had brought out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Westminster with spotted chests were nursing their young. Quite respectable girls were lying on the grass. An elderly man, bending stiffly, picked up a crumpled piece of paper, smoothed it out, and tossed it away. How awful! Last night at the Embassy, Sir Dighton had said, "If I need someone to hold my horse, I just have to raise my hand." But the religious issue is much more serious than the economic one, Sir Dighton had said, which she found incredibly interesting coming from someone like him. "Oh, the country will never realize what it has lost," he had said, speaking on his own about dear Jack Stewart.

She climbed the small hill easily. The air was buzzing with energy. Messages were going from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Piccadilly, Arlington Street, and the Mall seemed to stir the air in the Park and lift its leaves passionately, vibrantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa cherished. To ride; to dance; she had loved all of that. Or taking long walks in the countryside, chatting about books, what to do with one’s life, because young people could be incredibly self-righteous—oh, the things they had said! But they had conviction. Middle age is terrible. People like Jack will never understand that, she thought; because he never once thought about death, never knew, they said, that he was dying. And now can never mourn—how did it go?—a head turned grey... From the world's slow stain... have tasted their cup a round or two before... From the world's slow stain! She stood tall.

But how Jack would have shouted! Quoting Shelley, in Piccadilly! "You want a pin," he would have said. He couldn’t stand boring people. "My God Clarissa! My God Clarissa!"—she could already hear him now at the Devonshire House party, talking about poor Sylvia Hunt in her amber necklace and that frumpy old silk dress. Clarissa stood tall because she had spoken out loud and now she was in Piccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns and the balconies; passing the club windows full of newspapers; passing old Lady Burdett Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; and Devonshire House, without its gilded leopards; and Claridge's, where she had to remember Dick wanted her to leave a card for Mrs. Jepson or she would miss her. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St. James Palace; like a child's game made of bricks; and now—she had passed Bond Street—she was by Hatchard's bookshop. The stream was endless—endless—endless. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham—what was it? What a darling, she thought, looking at the front page of some memoirs spread wide in the window display, maybe Sir Joshua or Romney; charming, bright, modest; the kind of girl—like her own Elizabeth—the only real kind of girl. And there was that ridiculous book, Soapy Sponge, which Jim used to quote all the time; and Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew them by heart. Phil and she had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and Dick had bluntly said at dinner that night that he had never heard of her. Honestly, she had married him for that! He had never read Shakespeare! There must be some little cheap book she could get for Milly—Cranford of course! Was there ever anything so charming as the cow in petticoats? If only people had that kind of humor, that kind of self-respect now, Clarissa thought, as she remembered the wide pages; the sentences coming to an end; the characters—how one talked about them as if they were real. For all the great things, one must go to the past, she thought. From the contamination of the world's slow decline... Fear no more the heat of the sun... And now can never mourn, can never mourn, she repeated, her eyes wandering over the window; for it ran through her mind; the test of great poetry; the moderns had never written anything worth reading about death, she thought; and turned.

Omnibuses were joined by cars; cars by vans; vans by taxis; taxis again by cars—there was an open car with a girl alone in it. Until four, her feet tingling, I know, Clarissa thought, because the girl looked drained, half asleep in the corner of the car after the dance. Then another car came; and another. No! No! No! Clarissa smiled kindly. The heavyset lady had gone through so much trouble, but diamonds! orchids! at this hour of the morning! No! No! No! The reliable policeman would, when the time was right, hold up his hand. Another car went by. How completely unappealing! Why would a girl that age put dark eyeliner around her eyes? And a young man with a girl, at this hour, when the country—The admirable policeman raised his hand and Clarissa, recognizing his authority, took her time, crossed the street, and walked towards Bond Street; she saw the narrow twisted street, the yellow banners; the thick notched telegraph wires stretching across the sky.

A hundred years ago, her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry, who ran away with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. The Parrys had strolled down Bond Street for a century and might have crossed paths with the Dalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going the other way. Her father got his clothes from Hill's. There was a roll of fabric in the window, and just one jar on a black table, incredibly pricey; like the thick pink salmon on the ice block at the fishmonger’s. The jewelry was stunning—pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish, she thought, and chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches that had been worn on sea green satin by ladies with tall headpieces. But not good-looking! One must budget. She had to walk past the art dealer's where one of the quirky French paintings hung, as if people had thrown pink and blue confetti for a laugh. If you’ve lived with art (and it's the same with books and music), Clarissa thought, passing the Aeolian Hall, you can’t be fooled by a joke.

The Bond Street street was jammed. There, like a queen at a tournament, sat Lady Bexborough, regal and raised. She was in her carriage, sitting upright and alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose at her wrist. She wore black, quite shabby, yet, Clarissa thought, it showed her breeding and self-respect—never saying too much or letting people gossip; an incredible friend; no one can find fault with her after all these years, and now, there she is, passing the Countess who stood still, perfectly powdered, and Clarissa would have given anything to be like that, the mistress of Clarefield, discussing politics like a man. But she never goes anywhere, Clarissa thought, and it's quite pointless to ask her, and the carriage moved on, carrying Lady Bexborough past like a queen at a tournament, even though she had nothing to live for and the old man was failing and they say she's tired of it all, Clarissa thought, as tears actually rose to her eyes when she entered the shop.

"Good morning," Clarissa said in her charming voice. "Gloves," she continued, her friendliness on full display as she set her bag on the counter and began slowly undoing the buttons. "White gloves," she added. "Above the elbow," she said, looking directly into the shop assistant's face—but this wasn't the girl she remembered? She looked quite older. "These really don't fit," Clarissa remarked. The shop girl glanced at them. "Do you wear bracelets, Madame?" Clarissa spread her fingers. "Maybe it's my rings." And the girl took the grey gloves with her to the far end of the counter.

Yes, Clarissa thought, if it's the girl I remember, she's twenty years older. . . . There was only one other customer sitting sideways at the counter, her elbow resting, her bare hand drooping and vacant; like a figure on a Japanese fan, Clarissa thought, too vacant perhaps, yet some men would find her beautiful. The woman shook her head sadly. Again the gloves were too big. She turned the glass around. "Above the wrist," she said to the grey-haired woman, who looked and agreed.

They waited; a clock ticked; Bond Street buzzed, muted and far away; the woman walked off with gloves. “Above the wrist,” the lady said sadly, raising her voice. And Clarissa thought she would have to order chairs, ice cream, flowers, and coat check tickets. The people she didn’t want would show up; the ones she did want wouldn’t. She would stand by the door. They sold stockings—silk stockings. A lady is judged by her gloves and shoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silk stockings shimmering silver, she looked at the lady with sloping shoulders, her hand hanging down, her bag slipping, her eyes vacant and on the floor. It would be unbearable if dowdy women came to her party! Would people have liked Keats if he wore red socks? Oh, finally—she stepped behind the counter and it suddenly occurred to her:

"Do you remember before the war you had gloves with pearl buttons?"

"French gloves, ma'am?"

"Yes, they were French," Clarissa said. The other woman stood up sadly, grabbed her bag, and glanced at the gloves on the counter. But they were all too big—always too big at the wrist.

"With pearl buttons," said the shop girl, who seemed much older. She spread the layers of tissue paper apart on the counter. With pearl buttons, Clarissa thought, so simple—how French!

"Madame's hands are so slender," said the shop girl, pulling the glove snugly and smoothly over her rings. Clarissa glanced at her arm in the mirror. The glove barely reached her elbow. Were there any that were half an inch longer? Still, it felt like a hassle to ask her—maybe it was just that one day of the month, Clarissa thought, when it's painful to stand. "Oh, don't bother," she said. But the gloves were brought anyway.

"Don't you ever get really tired," she said with her charming voice, "standing? When do you get your time off?"

"In September, ma'am, when we're not as busy."

When they’re in the countryside, Clarissa thought. Or out hunting. She has two weeks at Brighton. In some cramped rental. The landlady takes the sugar. It would be so easy to send her to Mrs. Lumley's out in the country (it was almost on the tip of her tongue). But then she remembered how on their honeymoon, Dick had shown her the foolishness of acting on impulse. It was much more important, he said, to establish trade with China. Of course he was right. And she could sense the girl wouldn’t appreciate being given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Selling gloves was her job. She had her own sorrows that were completely separate, "and now can never mourn, can never mourn," the words repeated in her mind, "From the contagion of the world's slow stain," thought Clarissa, holding her arm stiff, because there are moments when it feels completely pointless (the glove was pulled off, leaving her arm dusted with powder)—simply one doesn’t believe, thought Clarissa, anymore in God.

The traffic suddenly surged; the silk stockings shone. A customer walked in.

"White gloves," she said, with a tone in her voice that Clarissa remembered.

It used to be so simple, Clarissa thought. Down through the air came the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, centuries ago, the yew hedges looked so beautiful with the diamond webs in the mist before early church. But if Dick were to die tomorrow for believing in God—no, she would let the kids decide, but for herself, like Lady Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her hand—Roden, her favorite, killed—she would keep going. But why, if you don't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove in her hand. This girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.

"Thirty shillings," said the shopwoman. "No, excuse me, ma'am, it's thirty-five. The French gloves are more."

For you don't live for yourself, Clarissa thought.

And then the other customer grabbed a glove, pulled on it, and it tore.

"There!" she said.

"A skin issue," the grey-haired woman said quickly. "Sometimes it's due to a bit of acid in the tanning process. Try this pair, Madame."

"But it's a terrible scam to ask for two pounds ten!"

Clarissa looked at the woman; the woman looked at Clarissa.

"Gloves haven't been as reliable since the war," the shop girl said apologetically to Clarissa.

But where had she seen the other woman?—elderly, with a frill under her chin; wearing a black ribbon for gold glasses; seductive, smart, like a Sargent drawing. It's amazing how you can tell from someone's voice when they’re used to making others—"It's a bit too tight," she said—obey. The shop assistant went off again. Clarissa was left waiting. "Fear no more," she repeated, tapping her finger on the counter. "Fear no more the heat of the sun. Fear no more," she repeated. There were little brown spots on her arm. And the girl moved at a snail’s pace. "You’ve done your worldly task." Thousands of young men had died so that things could continue. Finally! Half an inch above the elbow; pearl buttons; five and a quarter. My dear slowpoke, Clarissa thought, do you really think I can sit here all morning? Now you'll take twenty-five minutes to bring me my change!

There was a loud explosion outside on the street. The shopwomen ducked down behind the counters. But Clarissa, sitting very straight, smiled at the other lady. "Miss Anstruther!" she said.