So, in my
mind, she stands there, unmoving, her mackintosh dripping, drip drip
drip on the landing; for she's sopping wet, as if instead of taking
her leave she's not long arrived and was caught, in getting there, in
a June shower. Her mackintosh appropriate wear for such weather, for
the storm cloud she walks under and takes with her, wherever she
goes. She drips. Pitter-patter on the landing.
Miss
Dalloway, coming out to see what the drip drip was about, hides her
contempt; attempts civility. Miss Kilman, her enemy, again in this
house! stealing her
Elizabeth; converting her to religion. Love and religion. A love that
unites, a love that destroys.
Drip drip.
Pitter-patter; pitter-patter. It's raining: turn to God; pray with
me.
Miss
Kilman's thoughts are in a churn; roused to a passion, as always, by
Mrs Dalloway. She registers something was asked and makes a remark;
her large gooseberry-coloured eyes fixed as she replies on this
paragon of vanity.
Mrs
Dalloway and her small pink face. Mrs Dalloway and her delicate body;
said to be so fine that of an afternoon she laid on sofas. My
mother is resting.
She will
have, Miss Kilman thinks, some time soon her religious victory.
Clarissa Dalloway's body and soul will be subdued, and when they are
she will claim to herself (and possibly to others) it is God's will.
Until then she will return and drip drip drip on this soft carpet,
and allow herself to be spoken to condescendingly, and inwardly rage,
feel her bile rise, against these rich people and their expensive
things: furnishings, gilt-framed paintings and servants.
Yes,
Miss Kilman drips, glares and glowers at this paragon of vanity and
deceit. Jealous. And cheated. Of happiness, of education, of a
proper, respectable occupation. The world has sneered at her and cast
her off. For this,
for the likes of Clarissa Dalloway, with her dresses and flowers, and
a husband who is kindness itself and a beautiful daughter.
Bitter and
burning, is Doris Kilman. Pitying and envying. All who seat
themselves above her.
But
should the mother be more like the daughter, well! Miss Kilman would
welcome any kind attention from
her; any tête a tête with
her; any touch of consoling hands.
Ah,
Elizabeth. Beautiful Elizabeth. So different to her mother, in
character and colouring. So open to instruction. She can be brought
more easily to God. She might, too, one day see the same light as
Miss Kilman had two years and three months ago, and also be rid of
her fleshy desires. Desires that Miss Kilman herself is not entirely
free of.
Beauty.
Youth. Chocolate éclairs.
Tea with
Elizabeth at the Stores. Elizabeth and food was all that she lived
for. Oh, and the occasional wisdom of Rev. Edward Whittaker:
knowledge comes through suffering. She had knowledge enough hadn't
she? She, with her degree in Modern History. Why should she forego
these few comforts and suffer further?
Mrs
Dalloway escaped such torments (Clarissa would have liked to, at this
moment, escaped the landing but Miss Kilman's sinister serenity and
dripping mackintosh held her there); she could be doing more good,
thinks Miss Kilman. I would do more if I were she. Clothes might suit
me – I
could buy anything
- and I might come first with someone. Beauty might never be mine but
youth might stay. All this the silent-mouthed Miss Kilman might
think.
And as the
rain pours down from this one black cloud Mrs Dalloway, too, might be
having her own soundless thoughts: O, where has Elizabeth got to! Why
has she left me with this monster? And: how tiring it must be to
pray, each day, to a god that may or may not answer.
Picture credit: Lady Caroline Scott as Winter, 1776, Sir Joshua Reynolds (source: Wikiart).
Further note to accompanying picture: 'the gilt rim of the Sir Joshua picture of the little girl with the muff brought back Kilman with a rush; Kilman her enemy.' (Clarissa Dalloway). That used closest to that description.
This post was penned in 2019.
