"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." (p. 3) From this simple opening, Virginia Woolf embarks upon a novel bursting with ever changing thoughts, emotions, and impressions. It is suffused with short, simplistic statements, like the opening, followed by long disjointed streams of consciousness. Why would she present the reader with such a confusing scope of psychological activity, such an unstable view of life? In "Modern Fiction", Woolf tells us, "Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end," and asks, "Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible?" (p. 150) Mrs. Dalloway is an attempt to answer that question in the affirmative. To convey a varying and unknown spiritual element, she must admit confusion, complexity, and aberration into her novel. Only then can she bring to light this pervasive, radiant, but ephemeral spirit through the use of symbols. The effect draws strength from the contrast; superficially in the juxtaposition of elegant statements and arhythmic streams of consciousness, more abstractly in the recurrence of spiritual themes like the nature of the flower and the striking of Big Ben in opposition to the complex psychological terrain they somehow transcend.
Septimus Smith is the prime example of aberration, complexity, and changing psychological states in Mrs. Dalloway . In one instance, he seems full of convictions about what is meaningful:
Men must not cut down trees. There is a God. (He noted such revelations on the backs of envelopes.) Change the world. No one kills from hatred. Make it known (he wrote it down). (p. 25)
Later, "It might be possible, Septimus thought, looking at England from the train window, as they left New haven; it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning." (p. 88) Whenever Woolf enters the mind of Septimus, the narration turns choppy, fleeting, variable, and strange. He, like all the characters, is a product of postwar England. His resultant condition, however, is the most acute.
In some sense, it could be argued that Woolf's only point was to depict a psychologically (if not physically) damaged England. From her statement in "Modern Fiction", this does not seem to be the case. Woolf, like other modern writers, was attempting to rebuild that broken England, but not with the old bricks (devices that were "alien and external"), but by looking to spiritual metaphors. Instead of taking the course of Shakespeare and following a plot-based narrative, Woolf lays down a fertile terrain of disjointed perceptions and uncertain states. From here, she attempts to answer Septimus' uncertain musings about what, if anything, is meaningful in life. From the soil of aberration and complexity, Woolf first brings us flowers.
Flowers are appropriate as metaphors in, Mrs. Dalloway on two grounds: they are entities in a state of being rather than one of confusion and self-questioning, and are entities that imply sexual freedom. In this manner a correlation is made, between flowers as sexual -- courting insects with blossoming color for the purpose of pollination -- and as spiritual.
Flowers first appear as a symbol of being in the opening of the book. Clarissa is wandering mentally, emotionally, and physically through the streets of London. She wonders at larks, regards omnibuses, regrets old relationships and new ones, has, "a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone..." (p. 8), recites poetry, wishes she were another woman, finally comes to the flower shop,
And then, opening her eyes, how fresh ... the roses looked; and dark and prim the red carnations, holding their heads up; and all the sweet peas spreading in their bowls, tinged violet, snow white, pale - as if it were the evening and girls in muslin frocks came out to pick sweet peas and roses after the superb summer's day ... (p. 13)Both Clarissa and the reader are refreshed by the vibrance of the flowers. The paragraph imparts a sense of beauty, femininity, of girls picking flowers and the simplicity of a summer's day. This is too simplistic, however, to represent the, "unknown and uncircumscribed spirit" which Woolf seeks to convey. The symbol of the flower is developed further, into one of sexual freedom and awakening:
Then came the most exquisite moment of her whole life passing a stone urn with flowers in it. Sally stopped, picked a flower; kissed her on the lips. The whole world might have turned upside down! The others disappeared; there she was alone with Sally. And she felt that she had been given a present ... something infinitely precious ... the radiance burnt through, the revelation, the religious feeling! (pp. 35-36)This event is momentous for Clarissa because it is a "revelation", a "religious feeling" in contrast to her mundane relationship with her husband. Throughout the novel he peeks into her consciousness as a confusing and depressing element. He is "a sportsman, a man who cared only for dogs." (p. 189) At the same time, she muses, "Much rather would she have been one of those people like Richard who did things for themselves..." (p. 10) She loves, hates, envies, and regrets him. But with Sally, she finds herself in a freedom, a clarity that she has not had before. Here Clarissa has caught a glimpse of "this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit".
The novel continues to set the narrative with fickle emotions and shifting thoughts, then suggests something transcendental embodied in the metaphor of the flower. Some cannot accept this simplicity, demanding that such feminine spirituality is unattainable in ordinary life. Mrs. Dempster, a minor character, regards flowers with great contempt. "Roses, she thought sardonically. All trash, m'dear. For really, what with eating, drinking, and mating, the bad days and the good, life had been no mere matter of roses..." (p. 27) This passage seems to bring to light the potent contrast between the mundane, confusing, and aberrant; and the simple, luminous, and unknown. Woolf suggests that this spirit, although emerging in fleeting instances, is, "uncircumscribed". It can neither be fully delimited nor avoided. In laying the groundwork of her novel, Woolf gives us, like her characters, a glimpse at this feminine spirit through the symbol of the rose.
If flowers are a symbol of feminine spirituality, then Big Ben is the masculine counterpart. Here the quality of being unknown but uncircumscribed is more fully manifest. Big Ben is an ideal metaphor for representing this aspect. The clock chimes every hour -- is unavoidable in this sense. It seems as though it always has and always will sound the time. The ringing out of its bells, however, is undefinable. It is a fleeting instance, a moment where "The leaden circles dissolved into the air." (p. 94) It implies great weight, but is immediately gone.
Just as Woolf offers up flowers in response to Septimus' musings about the meaninglessness of life, she likewise offers Big Ben in response to his confusion about science and proportion. Septimus, like the other characters, has had his notions of the scientific, proportionate, rational world destroyed by the Great War. More specifically, he has had his relationship with Evans severed in a most irrational, inexplicable way. As an aeroplane is spelling out, "toffee" in smoke, Septimus makes, "A marvelous discovery indeed - that the human voice in certain atmospheric conditions (for one must be scientific, above all scientific) can quicken trees into life!" (p. 22) Here his illness is sadly evident. Not only does he imagine ridiculous things, but Septimus is plagued with the notion that one must be scientific. This parenthetical phrase repeats elsewhere in the novel, indicating the extent to which he is haunted by the notion of science. The proposed solution is to take him to Sir William, who believes above all in proportion:
Proportion, divine proportion, Sir William's goddess, was acquired by Sir William walking hospitals, catching salmon, begetting one son in Harley street by Lady Bradshaw, who caught salmon herself and took photographs scarcely to be distinguished from the work of professionals. Worshiping proportion, Sir William not only prospered himself but made England prosper, secluded her lunatics, forbade childbirth, penalized despair, made it impossible for the unfit to propagate their views until they, too, shared his sense of proportion ... (p. 99)
The incredibly ironic tone of both this passage serves to enforce the novel's stance that such notions - that the lunatic and aberrant in mankind should be suppressed, secluded, and forbidden - can no longer apply to a postwar (modern) society. The disjointed and confusing psychological narrative here serves to set up a complicated, struggling London. It is a London on which Big Ben can look down with purposeful endurance, and simply chime.
Big Ben rings in the vibrant beginning of the novel. Woolf tells us that "one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or walking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by the influenza) before Big Ben strikes." Here we see the intrusion of science and medicine into her spiritual metaphor. For a brief parenthetical instance, not unlike Septimus' interjection about science, Clarissa discounts the wonderful sense of expectancy she associates with the big clock tower as merely an ailment prescribable by doctors. Regardless, Big Ben strikes: "There! out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air." (p. 4) In this brief phrase the nature of Big Ben is brought forth as irrevocable, yet ephemeral. The clock tower is also ascribed consistency. That ending phrase, "The leaden circles..." is repeated several times throughout the novel. This lends the novel a cyclical air. Where it begins, it ends, and everywhere in between this figure, this spirit which is unavoidable in it's recurrence, yet surreptitious in it's conceivability, sounds out to be heard.
It might seem reasonable to argue that the figure of Big Ben coincides with proportion. After all, the clock measures out the passage of time. The fundamental difference between Big Ben and Sir William's proportion lies in the nature and representation of the clock. First, the clock does not strive for proportion. Unlike the doctor, who perceives that he must either cure or suppress aberrance, the clock is, was, and always will be in the state of passive regularity. Big Ben is admitting of aberrance, of the streets of London in all their chaos. He merely observes. Secondly, the clock is never described in scientific or technical terms. It would be easy to describe the ticking clock and moving gears as an analogy for a mechanized postwar society. That does not, however, seem Woolf's design for him.
Big Ben is ultimately refreshing and exciting to Clarissa, just as flowers were. She perceives a hush, a wonderment, a pause that is "indescribable" just before he chimes. The sounding of Big Ben is an event that occurs far above the everyday interactions of London. Here, too, Clarissa catches a glimpse of that great spirit. Between the metaphors of flowers and Big Ben, Woolf has given us great insight into her perception of what is meaningful in life. By laying a backdrop of confusion, genuine confusion resultant from the Great War, Woolf prepares a dynamic space in which to test and contrast her symbology. While, between Big Ben and flowers, the symbology seems to have been well defined, conceived, and explored, the ending of the novel does not reflect such resolution. The final lines are tinged with sadness as Peter Walsh realizes the fullness of his love for Clarissa and, consequently, his regret. While everywhere the novel points to something transcendental and spiritual, the characters are left with a sense of being outside this great thing. Clarissa, Peter, Septimus, and Sally can not contain their moments of revelation. They simply remember and regret. Perhaps such a sense of regret, of self alienation could shed light on Woolf's own personal demise. Suffice it here to say that, in Mrs. Dalloway , Woolf accomplished what she set out to do. She has, admitting whatever aberration or complexity it may afford, conveyed unto us, "a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end ... this varying,this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit..." which she so hoped to capture. In an era that is showing ever more the signs of modernity that Woolf represents in her novel, such an audience can only be grateful for her efforts. As we continue to feel the effects of those great wars, the toppling of of edifices like Nationalism, Ethnocentricism, and Materialism, we must look to writers like Woolf to rebuild and renew our spirit. From the source and start of modernism, Woolf has given us a great heritage and renewed faith in that meaningful spirit she conveys.