Great Courses Exercise 3

1. Try to rewrite the scene of Mrs. Dalloway walking down Bond Street in the first-person style of the Great Gatsby, or, perhaps, in the terse and more literal-minded approach of Dashiell Hammett. In other words, see if it’s possible to evoke Mrs. Dalloway by having her tell us what she’s thinking directly or by simply describing what she does or says as she moves through the scene. Conversely, see if it’s possible to apply Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness technique to Sam Spade’s hard-boiled world and still keep the scene tense, energetic, and suspenseful.

First person:

I have always loved Bond Street in the morning. So vibrant, so full of life. I needed to buy flowers for the party. Even though I could have sent my maid for them—Lord knows there were any number of tasks to do at home—I decided to attend to this insignificant detail myself. I made the short walk from my townhouse to the flower stall. On my way, I perused the shop windows, noticing that the merchants have begun to get in things like gloves and shoes, thing not seen since before the war. 

When I was a child I would walk this same street with my father, and he would comment on the wares we saw in the window displays, like the gloves he called “nearly perfect,” gloves made of kid dyed every color imaginable, that I would forbear to beg to touch, knowing I would never be allowed. 

Why is it that some people, like my father and I, appreciate fine wares like shoes and gloves, and draw pleasure from choosing and owning them, and others, like my daughter, cannot be bothered with them? In my opinion, appreciation for fine things says something essential about a person’s character.

Literal-minded:

Mrs. Dalloway walked down Bond Street on Friday morning, not briskly but not dallying either. She wore a peach-colored duster over a calf-length ecru dress, stockings, and sensible-heeled T-strap shoes. A long flower-print fringed scarf around her neck reached below her waistline. Her wide picture hat matched her coat. She carried a closed parasol over her arm. 

She peered into a few windows that she passed, wrinkling her nose at certain merchandise (that obviously didn’t meet her exacting standards). She didn’t greet any of the people she met. She walked steadily until she reached the flower stall. 

Once there, she quickly looked over the flowers on display and made her selection.

“Roses, I think,” she said to the florist. “Ten dozen. White.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said the florist. Mrs. Dalloway flinched. (Indicates we know what she is thinking: She was used to being called “My Lady” by people of the working class.)

“Send them to this address,” said Mrs. Dalloway, reaching into her pocket for a calling card and handing it to the florist.

“Right you are, ma’am,” he said.

She turned and quickly walked the short distance home.