VIRGINIA WOOLF’S NOTIONS OF MARRIAGE IN THE VOYAGE OUT,

MRS. DALLOWAY, AND TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

______

A Thesis

Presented to

the Faculty of

California State University

Dominguez Hills

______

In Partial Fulfillment of the

Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

in

Humanities

______

By

Janice L. Keene

Summer 2016

Copyright by

JANICE LEE KEENE

2016

All Rights Reserved

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my husband, Paul Keene, who inspired me to pursue a Master’s degree and who supported me along the way. I also want to thank my mentor, Dr. Patricia Cherin, whose patience and adaptability has been invaluable to me.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

COPYRIGHT ...... ii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS ...... iv

ABSTRACT ...... v

CHAPTER

I. INTRODUCTION...... 1

II. THE VOYAGE OUT (1915): YOUTHFUL IGNORANCE AND THE PROFOUND IMPACT OF THE ENGAGEMENT ...... 5

III. MRS. DALLOWAY (1925): MATURING MARRIAGES AND THE WISDOM OF PRIVACY ...... 18

IV. TO THE LIGHTHOUSE (1927): PUBLIC FACES, PRIVATE THOUGHTS ...... 34

V. CONCLUSION ...... 51

WORKS CITED ...... 55

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ABSTRACT

In The Voyage Out, Mrs. Dalloway, and To the Lighthouse, there are moments when Virginia Woolf suggests that death is preferable to marriage. However, there are enough exceptions to these grim notions that one must call into question the idea that

Woolf is entirely opposed to marriage; there are also moments when she shows the reader the benefits of marriage. These contradictions reveal that Woolf’s outlook on marriage is nuanced and open to multiple interpretations. This thesis explores

Woolf’s conflicting views on marriage as portrayed by several protagonists. Through the portrayal of the Dalloways, Woolf shows the benefits of respecting each other’s privacy in a marriage, for in order to thrive as a couple, one must also thrive as an individual. Ultimately, Woolf portrays marriage as neither a wholly positive or negative experience; instead, her characters demonstrate the ways in which marriage involves benefits and sacrifices for both parties involved.

1 CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

In 1901, eleven years before she married Leonard Woolf, Virginia Woolf wrote in a letter to Emma Vaughan, “I am going to found a colony where there shall be no marrying … no human element at all, except what comes through Art–nothing but ideal peace and endless meditation. This world of human beings grows too complicated”

(Rosenfeld 18). Clearly, twenty year old Virginia Woolf believed humans to be an unfit species for marriage. Having experienced sexual abuse at the hands of her step brothers, it is perhaps no wonder that Virginia was skeptical about the idea of permanently settling down with a man or even having sexual intercourse with a man. Yet she eventually chose to marry Stephen Woolf, a man who gave her a marriage of equality, one in which they valued each other’s needs for privacy and freedom.

In her first full-length novel, The Voyage Out, Woolf creates her first protagonist,

Rachel Vinrace, who, much like herself, suffers from the effects of a patriarchal,

Victorian culture which grossly limits her education and ability of self-expression and therefore, self-actualization. Many critics have written about the numerous ways in which

Rachel’s character was based upon Woolf’s own experiences: both had a lack of formal education; both had highly educated, successful fathers; and both lost their mothers at a young age. Rachel is eleven when her mother dies and Woolf was thirteen. Surrounded by overeducated, sexist males and under-educated, unsympathetic females, Rachel appears doomed to a constricting marriage with Terence Hewet. Woolf’s ironically grim

2 suggestion that death is perhaps preferable to marriage is a fascinating idea worthy of further investigation. In Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf further develops Richard and Clarissa

Dalloway, whom she first introduces to readers in The Voyage Out. Clarissa’s marriage to shy and stiff Richard sometimes fills her with doubts and insecurities.

Though she does not die like Rachel, by the end of the novel Clarissa finds herself accepting the inevitability of death without trepidation, all the while contemplating her friend Septimus’ suicide, whose death represents an act of anti-conformity in which he abandons his wife and his shell-shocked state. Similarly, in To the Lighthouse, Woolf presents readers with Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, neither of whom is ever given the luxury of a first name, symbolically suggestive of their interdependence as a couple. Mr. Ramsey’s selfish and callous ways are largely tolerated by his forgiving wife, but her challenges eventually come to an end when she dies suddenly one night.

All of these descriptions of marriages affected by sudden and mysterious deaths beg the question: “Is Woolf suggesting that sometimes death is in fact preferable to marriage?” A myriad of critics have written at great length about Woolf’s feminist convictions while her madness and eventual suicide are the stuff of numerous scholarly journals and books. I have structured my analysis chronologically, tracing the evolution of Virginia Woolf’s handling of the marriage theme over time. Upon comparing The

Voyage Out, Mrs. Dalloway, and To the Lighthouse, it is evident that while some expressions of marriage are relatively consistent, as conveyed indirectly by both single and married characters, other initial impressions of marriage seem to have evolved just as

Woolf herself evolved from a single, young woman into a mature, married woman trying

3 to figure out the ideal balance between being married and being an independent individual.

In Mark Hussey’s essay “Refractions of Desire,” he points out that in a letter

Virginia Stephen stated that she would not “look upon marriage as a profession” (138).

This letter ultimately convinced Leonard Woolf to resign from his colonial service and stay in England. Unlike many women of her age and status at the time, Virginia refused to be thought of as someone’s property or as being somehow incomplete until she is married. For many Victorian women, marriage appeared to be their only option.

However, it does not appear that this was Virginia Woolf’s only option. By the time she met Leonard she was already embarking on a burgeoning writing career and was thriving socially in the midst of fellow intellectuals in the Bloomsbury Group. Furthermore, she clearly did not marry for money, having once described Leonard as a penniless Jew.

Their marriage also involved professional collaboration as they founded the Hogarth

Press together in 1917. Leonard gave his wife plenty of time and space to write freely and he fully supported her work. He also let her spend a great deal of time with other people, such as her eventual lover Vita Sackville-West. This permission to live, work, and think as she chose must have been liberating “exactly what Virginia Woolf wanted.

Natania Rosenfeld describes the Woolf’s marriage as one “in which neither subjectivity drowns out the other and both partners thrived” due to “self-awareness on both sides” (3). It seems as though the Woolfs managed to figure out how to reconcile their desire to be married to each other with their desire to maintain their individual identities. Leonard cared for Virginia during her mental breakdowns and he published all

4 of her unfinished work after she committed suicide, a testament to his unfailing love for her and his belief and pride in her work. Although many critics conjecture that their marriage was mostly sexless, there is evidence of mutual love, respect, and freedom in their marriage. Ultimately, the treated novels largely showcase female protagonists like herself who are wrestling with both the positive and negative aspects of being married.

5 CHAPTER II

THE VOYAGE OUT (1915): YOUTHFUL IGNORANCE AND THE PROFOUND IMPACT OF THE ENGAGEMENT

Woolf began writing The Voyage Out in either 1906 or 1907. By this point she had been proposed to by three different men. By the time she finished her first novel she had been proposed to a total of four times, eventually marrying the fourth man who asked her in 1912. These life experiences surely played out in her writing and, as a result,

Woolf re-wrote aspects of The Voyage Out a number of times, perhaps in part the result of her evolving understanding and opinions on marriage. In this, her first novel, we meet a largely naive and inexperienced young woman grappling with the idea of getting married. We also meet numerous older characters (some single and some married) who share their thoughts on marriage with Rachel Vinrace, and indirectly, the reader. Overall, the reader gets the impression that Woolf may have been rather ambivalent about marriage as the myriad of varying attitudes in the novel toward it seem to suggest. Like many young lovers, Rachel and Terence display passion, confusion, misunderstandings, and apprehensions about the engagement and about marriage. Older, married characters such as Helen Ambrose seem to reflect a certain degree of ambivalence about marriage that perhaps Woolf, at the time, felt as well.

Ironically, as Rachel voyages out she becomes increasingly confined due to traditional Victorian and patriarchal expectations for young upper-class women. As an upper-class white woman living in Victorian England, Rachel Vinrace experiences what

6 it is like to live in a patriarchal society that made it very difficult for women to discover their true potential and to live autonomously from men. As she gradually becomes acquainted with adults on her father’s ship and with the hotel clients in the fictitious

Santa Marina, she is exposed to a plethora of strong opinions about young women and their supposed proper place in society. The sexist ideas that were commonly accepted as fact in Victorian society are evident in the words of St. John Hirst, who repeatedly alludes to the so-called “stupidity” of women and the meaninglessness of women ever attaining the right to vote. When St. John asks, “Have you got a mind, or are you like the rest of your sex?” (141) at the hotel dance, Rachel is clearly upset by what she calls his

“insolence” (141), but she does not have the proper education or self-confidence to defend herself from such comments or to do anything about them. It appears that everyone around her, with the possible exception of Evelyn M., has been socialized into believing that women do not belong in political and intellectual arenas. Remarks such as

Richard Dalloway’s comment, “May I be in my grave before a woman has the right to vote in England!” (35) do nothing to help Rachel escape the Victorian mindset that women are not worthy of participating in politics but are better suited to raising families and supporting their husbands’ endeavors.

Rachel’s strongly built, ship-owning father, Willoughby, provides her with an inadequate education, one that Dianna L. Swanson calls the education of “a neglected and abused child” (289). While Swanson’s description is perhaps a slight exaggeration, there is no doubt that Woolf is making a point about the unjust discrepancy between the education of young men and women in England at this time. The narrator writes that

7 “there was no subject in the world which [Rachel] knew accurately” and that “she would believe practically anything she was told, invent reasons for anything she said” (26).

Rachel’s ignorance of the world and naiveté in general stand in sharp contrast to the overeducated Mr. Pepper who “knew about a great many things” from mathematics to zoology to the Icelandic Sagas (12). Furthermore, her uncle Mr. Ridley, the professor who spends nearly all of his time in his study literally surrounded by books that Rachel must step over in order to reach him, is a symbolic contrast of the way in which her limited education shuts her out from his “masculine,” academic world.

It is important to note, however, that Rachel’s education is perhaps even more limited than that of the average upper-class woman in Victorian England due to the fact that she is treated like a child though she is by years, an adult. The narrator makes it clear that while her formal education is lacking, her social and/or worldly education is equally poor: “As for Rachel, she had scarcely walked through a poor street, and always under the escort of her father, maid, or aunts” (56). Interestingly, Rachel seems to be aware of her overly sheltered life, humbly professing to Richard Dalloway, “I know nothing!”

(56). Yet rather than encouraging Rachel to change her situation, Dalloway simply replies by saying that “[i]t’s far better that you should know nothing” (56), suggesting that because she is a woman she is not expected to know much of anything anyway.

Unfortunately for Rachel, the female role models in her life are also inadequate to help her come of age and discover who she really is, for they are also the products of a patriarchal society seemingly bent on repressing women. Molly Hite writes that “as is often the case in Woolf’s work, the maternal is also a menace” (537), pointing out the

8 way in which Rachel’s Aunt Helen fails to provide her niece with any useful and consistent advice. Like Rachel, Helen’s ideas are not fully formed or reflective of any serious contemplation, and she has a bad habit of telling Rachel that what she is thinking or feeling is wrong.

Just as Rachel is about to make a discovery about the significance of Dalloway’s kiss which she claims, “terrified” her, Helen advises her to simply “think no more about it” (71). Rachel’s conflicted emotions upon being kissed by the married and much older

Richard Dalloway may shed light on Woolf’s views on male domination over young and naive women. Nevertheless, Rachel appears excited and intrigued by the kiss, which rouses a largely welcome curiosity about men that she has presumably never felt before.

Rachel’s dream of barbarian men following Richard’s kiss may suggest that he is simply that, a barbarian and, by extension, all men are such. By refusing to listen to Rachel’s fears about her likely first sexual contact with a man, Helen prevents her niece from learning from this potentially instructive experience, and instead shuts her down as though Rachel is merely a babbling child. Furthermore, when Rachel and Terence come to her eager for marriage advice, Helen lamely mentions that marriage “is not easy” and fails to give them any practical counsel whatsoever even though she herself is a married woman with children (271). Finally, Helen’s comment that “the great things aren’t as great, perhaps, as one expects - but it’s interesting” (274) further serves to reflect Woolf’s ambivalent viewpoint.

Similarly, the aunts who raised Rachel in London do not encourage her to express herself, apparently finding more importance in maintaining their routine of “Breakfast

9 nine; luncheon one; tea five; dinner eight” (197). As Rachel profoundly admits to Terence that a “girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she does” (203), her words indicate that she longs to be a part of the world, not merely an observer of it.

Though she claims to “love the freedom of it” (203), it is difficult to know if Rachel is being sincere. Readers cannot help but wonder if Woolf is commenting about the way in which this so-called “freedom” for Victorian women ironically imprisons them by preventing them from achieving their greatest potential.

Terence and Rachel’s seeming annoyance at ordinary couple Susan and Arthur’s embrace in the jungle is an interesting moment that may exemplify Woolf’s conflicting feelings about marriage at the time. Somehow she manages to simultaneously portray both the excitement and awkwardness of newfound love. Right after Arthur admits his love for her, it is difficult to tell whether Susan is excited because she loves Arthur back, or simply struck by the fact that someone has actually proposed to her: “She was struck motionless as his speech went on, and her heart gave great separate leaps at the last word.

She sat with her fingers curled around a stone, looking straight in front of her down the mountain over the plain. So then, it had actually happened to her, a proposal of marriage”

(126). By writing, “it had actually happened to her, a proposal of marriage” instead of

“Arthur had proposed to her” it seems as though the act of someone proposing is more important to Susan than the person who is actually proposing. “It had actually happened” is stated rather matter of factly. In the moments that follow this exchange, Susan prays that she will make him “a good wife” and she ruminates on “how delightful it would be to

10 join the ranks of the married women ... to escape the long solitude of an old maid’s life”

(127).

While it appears that Susan is excited about her future as a married woman, readers cannot help but wonder whether or not to take her character seriously. She certainly does sound like a lot of women who fear becoming an “old maid” and in this sense, her character is relatable for many readers. Her hyperbolic language of “join the ranks of married women” is juxtaposed with the “long solitude of an old maid’s life” and brings to mind how some women view marriage like a club that one joins so as to avoid a life of loneliness. As is typical of Woolf’s style, the tone here is ambivalent, simultaneously pointing out the potential benefits of marriage, companionship and camaraderie amongst wives, while also perhaps indirectly making fun of women like

Susan who are more afraid of being alone than anything else.

Upon discovering this couple embracing on the ground, Rachel is described as having “stopped dead” in her tracks as though she has seen a ghost (128). While this intense diction highlights her obvious lack of experience in the world, it also suggests that she is seeing something that fills her with dread and even fear. Several critics such as

Louise DeSalvo and Natania Rosenfeld have written about the ways in which Woolf’s history of sexual abuse plays out in her writing in such a way that Rachel’s death “arises from a terror of defloration” (Rosenfeld 25). While this fear is entirely possible, there remains an overlying tone of dark humor in this passage. There is one truly remarkable line here which seems to sum up Woolf’s ambivalence to marriage: “Susan Warrington, lay back upon the ground, with her eyes shut and an absorbed look upon her face, as

11 though she were not altogether conscious. Nor could you tell from her expression whether she was happy, or had suffered something” (128). Woolf’s refusal to clearly describe

Susan as either happy or suffering is an excellent example of the conflicting tonal cues that critics such as Hite have noted. This awkwardly humorous scene ends when Terence says to Rachel, “Just because they’re in love ... there’s something horribly pathetic about it, I agree” (128), but it is difficult to know whether he is being honest with her or merely telling her what he thinks she wants to hear. The irony of this statement is that Terence ends up proposing to Rachel not too long after this supposed “pathetic” encounter.

As Terence debates in his mind whether or not to propose to Rachel (or even to get married at all), his thoughts on marriage are portrayed by a series of conflicting pictures in his mind and may be a window into Woolf’s conflicting viewpoints at the time as well:

[Marriage] immediately suggested the picture of two people sitting alone

over the fire; the man was reading, the woman sewing. There was a

second picture. He saw a man jump up, say good-night, leave the company

and hasten away with the quiet secret look of one who is stealing to certain

happiness. Both these pictures were very unpleasant, and even more so

was a third picture, of husband and wife and friend; and the married

people glancing at each other as though they were content to let something

pass unquestioned, being themselves possessed of the deeper truth ... but

he saw them always, walled up in a warm fire lit room. When, on the other

hand, he began to think of unmarried people, he saw them active in an

12 unlimited world; above all, standing on the same ground as the rest,

without shelter or advantage. (228)

It is difficult to determine which viewpoint Terence actually believes. Perhaps he, like

Woolf herself, is capable of believing two conflicting ideas at the same time: that while marriage is often warm and familiar, sometimes dissatisfaction and doubt are still scratching under the comfortable surface. The image of the warm fire-lit room is comforting and inviting, yet the overall description of marriage here has a disdainful and disapproving tone.

Similarly, Terence and Rachel’s dreamy and confusing journey into the jungle, which ultimately culminates in their engagement, is loaded with ambiguity and the strong suggestion that all will not end well. The notion that the couple feels as though they are underwater here implies that marriage is synonymous with drowning. Woolf’s diction upon describing their walk through the jungle is loaded with foreboding imagery. The leaves are “sword-like,” and “the light grew dimmer” (256). As they continue on, “the noises of the ordinary world were replaced by those creaking and sighing sounds which suggest to the traveler in a forest that he is walking at the bottom of the sea” (256). It is as though their walk along the path which “resembled a drive in an English forest” is meant to symbolize both the beginning and the end for them - the beginning of their union but the end of their happiness. Walking on the bottom of the sea is hardly a romantic image but rather quite a frightening one, a dark and dangerous place with no light or hope.

Perhaps the reference to an English forest is intended to remind the reader that this

13 exhilarating and scary experience of falling in love is universal and that the path they are choosing to take has already been laid out for them by their patriarchal fathers and traditional upbringing.

Of course, Rachel also struggles to figure out what she wants in life. At times she does not even appear to know if she is happy or what happiness is, thinking to herself,

“This is happiness, I suppose” (267) as she sits next to Terence discussing their engagement. By adding, “I suppose, “Rachel indicates that she is not exactly sure if she is happy. Perhaps she simply thinks that society would expect her to be happy and so she assumes that this is what happiness must feel like. Their uncertainty about marriage is clearly evident in the following passage, which could serve as an argument in favor of open marriage in its suggestion that perhaps people are not meant to settle down with just one person for the rest of their lives, and that somehow monogamy is unnatural:

‘Perhaps I ask too much,’ [Terence] went on. ‘Perhaps it isn’t really

possible to have what I want. Men and women are too different. You can’t

understand - you don’t understand’ ... It seemed to [Rachel] now that what

he was saying was perfectly true, and that she wanted many more things

than the love of one human being - the sea, the sky. She turned again and

looked at the distant blue, which was so smooth and serene where the sky

met the sea; she could not possibly want only one human being. (285)

This passage brings to mind the argument that people want many different things and how can one person possibly satisfy all of those desires. The fact that Leonard Woolf was aware of his wife’s intimate relationship with Vita Sackville-West shows that the Woolfs

14 understood the unrealistic boundaries that traditional marriages place on a man and woman and they were ultimately able to figure out a way to reconcile their individual wants and needs while maintaining a largely happy marriage.

Helen’s strange wrestling on the ground with Rachel immediately after the engagement has homoerotic connotations and may serve as a reminder to the reader that a heterosexual union sanctioned by the law is not her only option:

A hand dropped abrupt as iron on Rachel’s shoulder; it might have been a

bolt from heaven. She fell beneath it, and the grass whipped across her

eyes and filled her mouth and ears ... Helen was upon her. Rolled this way

and that ... she was speechless and almost without sense. At last she lay

still, all the grasses shaken round her and before her by her panting.

(268)

This “bolt from heaven” and overwhelming sense of falling, rolling, speechless and panting, is sexually charged diction that makes wrestling with Helen sound more erotic than innocent and playful. As Rachel lies on the ground afterward, “over her loomed two great heads, the heads of a man and woman, of Terence and Helen” (268). These two looming heads, one male, one female, represent options and possibilities for Rachel. But one gets the sense that she isn’t even aware of her options or she is unwilling to fully reflect on them. Rachel tries to avoid her aunt most of the time, possibly in the effort to quell any feelings for her that would most certainly be frowned upon by her patriarchal society.

15 As Terence and Rachel get to know each other better their relationship grows in the sense that they become more comfortable with each other, yet Terence increasingly shows disapproval of Rachel’s passion for playing the piano. His attempts to replace her hobby with poetry, his repeatedly sexist comments on the supposed limitations of women, and his treatment of Rachel as a female “specimen” all indicate that they are hardly an ideal match. In many ways, Terence represents the typical Victorian upper-class male, and as his character increasingly show his traditional and sexist beliefs, he becomes less likable. It is only upon Rachel’s deathbed that the reader finally sees that maybe he does love Rachel after all, and is simply trying to turn his fiancé into the kind of woman that he thinks he is supposed to be with. Rachel’s ominous dreams and hallucinations while deathly ill symbolize how marriage to Terence would only prove disastrous. Ultimately, her death seems to save her from the restrictions that marriage to Terence would involve.

Many critics believe that Rachel’s sudden death ironically saves her by preventing her marriage to Terence, who, despite all of his comments otherwise, proves to hold some traditional, patriarchal viewpoints about women. Though he occasionally tries to sound sympathetic to the plight of women and their “silent unrepresented life” (200), he insults his fiancé’s physical appearance and intellect as well as her music, her true passion in life. Declaring to Helen in Rachel’s presence that “you ought to have taught her by this time that she’s a person of no conceivable importance whatever” (291), he reveals what may be his true nature and poor candidacy as a nurturer and supporter of Rachel. Though his love for her is clearly evident upon her deathbed, Rachel’s notion that “You’ve no

16 conception what it’s like–to be a young woman” (202), something she told him when they were first getting to know each other, rings profoundly true.

The fact that Terence’s presence most frightens her during the peak of her fever suggests that Terence would only get in the way of Rachel’s attempts to communicate, and that perhaps some part of her subconscious knows this. In her introduction to the novel, Jane Wheare writes that “Rachel has an independence of spirit, a sensitivity and an imaginative life which, it seems, could easily be crushed by union with someone more articulate and self-confident than herself, and by the social pressures that such a union entails” (xxiv). While this may certainly be true, Woolf’s possible suggestion that autonomy in death is preferable to the restrictions and expectations of a Victorian marriage is problematic for two reasons: firstly, it is extremely pessimistic; and secondly, it may not give young women like Rachel and/or the love between the couple enough credit.

Molly Hite points out that “Woolf often refrains from presenting an attitude or pronouncement that can be recognized as authorially sanctioned” (525). As part of what

Hite calls “Woolf’s modernist turn” (525), Woolf’s revisions of The Voyage Out purposely present conflicting and even at times absent tonal cues. Certainly, there are no straightforward clear messages about the engagement in this novel. In fact, one could also make the argument that there is evidence of love between Rachel and Terence and that they simply are young and need more time to mature. Shortly after becoming engaged to

Terence, Rachel thinks that “she had never felt this independence, this calm, and this certainty until she fell in love with him, and perhaps this too was love. She wanted

17 nothing else” (298). Yet as Rachel struggles to define and explain her feelings here,

Woolf’s use of language refuses to provide any clear insights. By writing “perhaps this too was love” the narrator calls into question whether she is actually in love at all. By stating that she “wanted nothing else,” this simply points out Rachel’s desire and not necessarily her reality.

The ability to make a serious decision such as getting engaged indicates that

Rachel is beginning to figure out what she wants and what she thinks will make her happy, but her death prevents her from learning from her experiences and mistakes, a significant part of the coming of age process. While Rachel disappears from society literally by dying, she is unable to communicate with anyone at the end, nor can she see the reality of the world around her. In this sense, her feverish hallucinations of violence could be a metaphor for the way in which Rachel still has much to learn and accept, and many fears yet to overcome if she is to survive in her repressive, Victorian society. Of course she does not survive, and readers can only wonder what would have become of

Rachel Vinrace had she lived and actually gotten married.

18 CHAPTER III

MRS. DALLOWAY (1925): MATURING MARRIAGES AND THE WISDOM OF PRIVACY

In Mrs. Dalloway, as Woolf fully immerses her writing into the stream-of- consciousness technique that was only sparsely used in her first novel, the reader feels as though she is in the mind of the protagonist. Instead of a young and naive single woman, the reader gets to know Clarissa Dalloway, a middle-aged, married woman who sometimes ponders the way her life might have been had she married someone else.

Clarissa and Richard have one child, a daughter of marrying age on whom they both dote.

Despite Clarissa’s occasional ponderings about past loves and what could have been, the

Dalloway marriage appears to thrive as the couple has learned how to give each other the personal and physical space that they both need. In their introduction to The Letters of

Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, Louise DeSalvo and Mitchell A. Leaska explain how Virginia and Vita both suffered from “the need for affection in combat with the need for independence” (29). It appears in Mrs. Dalloway that Richard and Clarissa have similar desires and appear to deal with this challenge fairly well, at least when it comes to respecting one’s personal space.

By encouraging Clarissa to sleep in the attic, Richard gives his wife her own room and therefore more privacy and independence than many married women were likely to enjoy. Interestingly enough, four years after the publication of Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf published A Room of One’s Own in which she wrote at length about the need for all

19 women to have their own private spaces in which to think and work. In this sense, the

Dalloway marriage seems relatively ideal. But of course Woolf refuses to clearly define this space as solely positive or negative. Woolf writes that Clarissa is “[l]ike a nun withdrawing, or a child exploring a tower, she went, upstairs, paused at the window, came to the bathroom … There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room”

(33). This passage is loaded with contradiction; is she like a nun, sexless and isolated, or is she like a child, excitedly exploring a special, hidden away place? This section captures the two sides to privacy: the thrill of freedom and the isolation of it. Her bed is described as narrow, and the sheets are “clean, tight stretched in a broad white band from side to side” (33). The image of the narrow bed with tight white sheets further develops the idea that Clarissa lives like a nun, or at least sleeps like one. While many critics have written about her so-called frigidity, one does not get the sense that this is necessarily a bad thing that is eating away at her marriage. One must remember that, after all, it was Richard’s idea for her to sleep alone in the attic, and for someone who “slept badly” (34), Clarissa probably finds this space a welcoming one. Finally, the idea that this attic is a positive space is suggested when, upon hearing the news of Septimus’ death, Clarissa retreats to the attic where she can be alone and better process her thoughts and emotions.

Using free indirect speech, Woolf’s third person narration gives the essence of first person narration by cluing the reader into Clarissa’s thoughts. At the beginning of the novel, Clarissa appears to think to herself that she had been right not to marry Peter, for “in marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him … but

20 with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into” (8). Because Woolf does not directly write that Clarissa had this thought herself, there is the suggestion that the narrator believes this to be true, thereby insinuating that this is not merely the subjective thought of Clarissa but also a fact of reality that married people need their own independence and Peter would not have given her the space she needs.

Not everyone agrees that the Dalloway marriage is healthy. Upon seeing her for the first time in years, Peter thinks about what has become of Clarissa, ultimately disapproving of her decision to marry Conservative Richard and spend much of her time mending dresses and throwing parties:

Here she is mending her dress; mending her dress as usual, he thought;

here she’s been sitting all the time I’ve been in India; mending her dress;

playing about; going to parties; running to the House and back and all that,

he thought, growing more and more irritated, more and more agitated, for

there’s nothing in the world so bad for some women as marriage, he

thought; and politics; and having a Conservative husband, like the

admirable Richard. So it is, so it is, he thought, shutting his knife with a

snap. (44)

In this short passage, the narrator writes “he thought” a total of four times. This time,

Woolf purposely emphasizes that these are Richard’s thoughts, and not the narrator’s or her own thoughts. They are his thoughts which are highly subjective. The fact that she happens to be mending a dress when he shows up at her house is also emphasized through the repetition of “mending her dress,” and serves as a symbol of Richard’s

21 limited perspective on Clarissa’s marriage. His growing increasingly irritated and agitated and shutting of his knife “with a snap” gives the passage a slightly ominous tone, perhaps with the intention of suggesting that Peter would have been too intense and passionate a husband for Clarissa.

Some feminist critics focus on Peter’s knife as a “phallic weapon” which represents his pursuit of women (Rosenfeld 101). Rosenfeld argues instead that his knife is a “symbol of desired communication as well as one of sharp division” (102). This reading makes sense in light of the fact that Peter pulls his knife half out upon seeing

Clarissa again for the first time in years, which is perhaps a hopeful gesture of reaching out, but then he snaps it shut upon realizing that she has changed and that there is no future for them. The fact that Clarissa is also carrying a sharp metal object (her sewing scissors) makes Peter’s “weapon” seem less like a weapon and more like a useless toy.

While Clarissa is putting her scissors to work by sewing a dress for her very own party,

Peter’s tool never serves its true purpose; it is merely a toy that he plays with when he appears to be nervous. In this sense, Peter seems weak and powerless, hardly the dangerous presence that some feminist critics might try to have us believe. At one point

Clarissa thinks to herself, “What an extraordinary habit that was ... always playing with a knife, always making one feel, too, frivolous; empty-minded; a mere silly chatterbox, as he used” (47-48). This passage reveals how Peter makes her feel irrelevant and inferior.

However, as she responds by pulling out her needle, she once again shows that she has some power in this relationship as she is also armed, in a sense.

22 Paul Tolliver Brown argues that Clarissa feels that Peter’s love would have destroyed both of them and taken away her sense of freedom and independence, therefore she is happy that she married Richard because he is able to provide her with this much wanted independence. Tolliver Brown further argues that “Clarissa values her independence, above the traditional values of either religion or a marriage that would fully subsume her identity under her husband’s” (31). Perhaps this is true, for Clarissa does accept her husband’s offer to have the attic to herself, and she appears to enjoy having the house to herself as she makes her party preparations. In “Virginia Woolf’s

Idea of Privacy,” Joshua Rothman explains that there are costs to the kind of inner privacy displayed by the Dalloways. When Richard gives Clarissa flowers that he spontaneously buys during his lunch hour, he finds himself unable to tell her that he loves her.

Yet despite this awkward encounter, Clarissa seems to respect and almost expect this behavior from him, thinking to herself, “There is a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband and wife a gulf; and that one must respect ... for one would not part with it oneself, or take it, against his will, from one’s husband, without losing one’s independence, one’s self-respect—something, after all, priceless” (131). The irony of this statement is remarkable, the idea that there must be a solitude and a gulf between husband and wife, yet this is the very quality that the Woolfs seem to have enjoyed in their own marriage. Rothman further argues that “marriage, love, and intimacy only take you so far; at the end of that path, you fall back on the austere, solitary dignity of the inner life. And yet Clarissa prefers austerity to intimacy,” bringing to mind Woolf’s own insistence on

23 privacy and the independence she enjoyed being married to Leonard. Yet perhaps

Rothman fails to appreciate that by giving Clarissa flowers for no specific reason,

Richard is telling his wife that he loves her without actually having to say it out loud.

What then, has truly been lost? As Richard holds his wife’s hand, unable to say the words, “I love you,” he thinks, “Happiness is this, is this” (130). The repetition of “is this” gives the line a pressing, sincere tone that is not at all satirical or unsure. He means it and the fact that his wife’s thoughts are elsewhere as she wonders about who to invite to her latest party, does not take away from the fact that he has done something romantic for her.

Jesse Wolfe argues that the Dalloways’ lack of outward communication is a

“crisis of intimacy” (37). Wolf writes that in Mrs. Dalloway, “Woolf’s elusive, protean tone slips, almost imperceptibly, from sympathy to judgment, even to satire” and at times even “suggests that Clarissa’s marriage ... has been a self-betrayal (35). I do not agree that Clarissa has betrayed herself by marrying Richard nor do I see a “crisis of intimacy.”

It is precisely her marriage to Richard that allows Clarissa to take advantage of her social talents and carve out her own identity as a party planner. Like Rachel the piano player,

Clarissa Dalloway is an artist in the sense that she creates powerful moments for people.

Her famous dinner parties are well attended and the much anticipated party at the end of the novel allows a tender moment to occur between Richard and his largely absent daughter Elizabeth, and for Clarissa to confirm her love of people and of life in general.

It is important to note she would likely not be given the platform with which to host such elegant parties were it not for marrying a successful and well-connected man

24 such as Richard, and in this sense, it is precisely her marriage that allows her to use her social skills and instincts. The narrator describes how her parties “were all for him, or for her idea of him (to do Richard justice he would have been happier farming in Norfolk).

She made her drawing-room a sort of meeting-place; she had a genius for it” (84). This comment demonstrates how she is not being forced to throw these parties out of a sense of obligation but rather, she chooses to play the host because this is “her idea of him” and because she has a “genius” for it.

The narrator goes on to add that “she did it genuinely, from a natural instinct”

(85), again emphasizing that this is not hard work for Clarissa, but rather, throwing parties allows her to be herself and use her natural-born talents. Quite simply, she thrives in a party environment and as Woolf writes, “she enjoyed life immensely” (85). With

Richard and Clarissa, Virginia Woolf presents to her readers a realistic, nuanced outlook on marriage; sometimes Clarissa seems a little stifled by her life and her marriage appears to be a self-betrayal, while other times her marriage seems to offer her a life of freedom and privacy, values that Woolf so passionately upheld. By writing these characters,

Woolf shows her readers a marriage that offers both participants benefits and challenges, but is ultimately one worth keeping.

Clarissa’s feelings for her old friend Sally Seton also deserve significant attention and they certainly bring to light Woolf’s widely known lesbian affair with Vita Sackville-

West. Sally’s kiss is described as “the most exquisite moment of her whole life” (38).

Critics disagree about the extent to which their past relationship was simply a girlhood phase and the extent to which it was a meaningful experience that plays out for the rest of

25 her life. Kate Haffey observes that “when [their] love is not described in terms of its

‘innocence,’ it is positioned as part of that ‘unruly’ phase of adolescence, a period incompatible with female maturity” (139). In this reading, the relationship is deemed as merely an interruption in the flow of her life on a natural progression towards heterosexual marriage. Haffey questions Elizabeth Abel’s reading of Clarissa’s female development in which the kiss is associated solely with the past and her marriage to

Richard is associated with the present, as though the kiss is an isolated incident that has no bearing on the present or the future (139). Haffey argues that the past and present are often mingled in Woolf’s writing and that Mrs. Dalloway is no exception. As an example,

Haffey refers to a frequently quoted passage from the opening page of the novel in which the squeaking sound as she opens her French windows reminds Clarissa of her time at

Bourton, the country house where she grew up. So it appears that the past is really always a part of the present, at least in one’s consciousness (Haffey 140).

Much like Woolf was drawn to Vita’s rebellious nature, Clarissa is drawn to

Sally’s wild and vivacious side. As Clarissa thinks about the past, she reflects on her old feelings for Sally and how “[i]t was not like one’s feelings for a man. It was completely disinterested, and besides, it had a quality which could only exist between women, between women just grown up. It was protective on her side; sprang from a sense of being in league together” (37). This passage suggests that their kiss might simply be meant to represent a phase, a fleeting moment, as many critics claim it to be. Yet on the very same page, Woolf writes, “She could not even get an echo of her old emotion. But

26 she could remember going cold with excitement … (now the old feeling began to come back to her, as she took out her hairpins)” (37). Although, initially, Clarissa could not find any remnant of her old emotions, the “old feeling” soon comes back to her, thus showing how powerful memories of the past continue to affect the present and also suggesting that her feelings for Sally are not completely gone simply because time has marched on.

Certainly, young Clarissa is attracted to Sally’s rebellious and reckless nature:

she once stole a chicken, smoked cigars, and left a valuable book on a boat (199). There

are many passages in the novel which emphasize just how special Sally is: “Sally’s power

was amazing, her gift, her personality” (36). It seems that Sally has a talent for

mesmerizing people with her wild ways and her charms. While thinking about the present

Sally at her party, Clarissa reflects on how she always thought Sally’s recklessness was bound to end in tragedy, but instead “she had married, quite unexpectedly, a bald man which a large buttonhole who owned, it was said, cotton mills at Manchester. And she had five boys!” (199). So instead of the romantic ending worth of a rebel, Sally settles down and gives into a domestic, “normal” life. The exclamation point after “five boys!” is used again when Sally tells Peter, “I have five sons!” (205). It is almost as though Sally can hardly believe this fact herself. Her present life of financial comfort and motherhood stands in stark contrast to her previous life of never having “had a penny to her name”

(206). My reading of Sally’s present state is that she has not given up and lost part of her former self but rather, that her marriage has provided her with both emotional and financial rewards. Her sense of vitality and love of life remains. At Clarissa’s party, Sally

27 tells Peter, though she has the body of a fifty-two year old, “her heart was like a girl’s of twenty” and that “[s]he felt more deeply, more passionately, every year” (212). These are hardly the words of a woman who has betrayed herself by getting married and bearing children.

The marriage between Septimus and Rezia Smith must also be considered as theirs is also full of contradiction and ambiguity. At times they appear like a sweet couple enamored with each other and at other times the distance between them seems great.

When Rezia removes her wedding ring, remarking that her hand has grown thin,

Septimus’ immediate thoughts display his sharply conflicting emotions about marriage:

He dropped her hand. Their marriage was over, he thought, with agony,

with relief. The rope was cut; he mounted; he was free, as it was decreed

that he, Septimus, the lord of men, should be free; alone (since his wife

had thrown away her wedding ring; since she had left him), he, Septimus,

was alone, called forth in advance of the mass of men to hear the truth, to

learn the meaning. (74)

The language here is loaded with irony and contradiction. He feels both agony and relief upon Rezia removing the ring. He feels both free yet alone. The marriage here is compared to a rope, bringing to mind imprisonment but also safety and security. The narrator’s use of hyperbole which “called forth in advance of the mass of men to hear the truth” has a slightly facetious tone and is not meant to be taken seriously. What truth does he hope to learn upon no longer being married? How can Septimus, especially in his

28 traumatized and needy state, benefit from losing the one person who most cares about him in the world?

At one point Rezia says to herself, “They were perfectly happy now … For she could say anything to him now. She could say whatever came into her head … anything in the whole world, any little bother with her work, anything that struck her to say she would tell him, and he understood at once” (160). It is hard to imagine a more powerful example of the benefits of marriage than her apparent freedom to share her thoughts, feelings and whims, knowing or at least believing that she would be listened to and understood. The repetition of “anything” and “any” show just how comfortable Rezia is around her husband. Her love for him is perhaps most evident when she insists that

“nothing should separate them” (163), not even his mental illness. Finally, by adding the word “now” to “they were perfectly happy,” Woolf reminds her readers that no one is perfectly happy all of the time, and by extension, no marriages are perfectly happy all of the time. Perhaps one should simply be happy with the happy moments when they do come.

However, similar to the Dalloways, there is also a sense of distance and privacy between the Smiths. In spite of Rezia’s open and caring nature, Septimus feels isolated from everyone around him, and is a shell-shocked ex-soldier who has lost his belief in the empire of England and perhaps even in the decency of mankind. As much as she tries,

Rezia will never understand what he has been through, the narrator pointing out that “[o]f her memories, most were happy” (165). Although Septimus is losing his mind and has suffered the trauma of war, he has occasional moments of insight into his own feelings on

29 life, death, and pain. Perhaps his greatest frustration is his own lack of feelings after the war. He thinks about how he was “far from showing any emotion” when his friend Evans was killed, and he even congratulated himself for “feeling little and very reasonably. The

War had taught him. It was sublime” (95). Of course, “feeling little” and experiencing the sublime is a contradictory idea. The narrator repeats the phrase, “he could not feel” six times over the course of two pages, revealing the extent of his depression and consequent numbness. The narrator explains how after learning that Mrs. Filmer’s daughter was pregnant, “His wife was crying, and he felt nothing; only each time she sobbed in this profound, this silent, this hopeless way, he descended another step into the pit” (99).

Bird imagery abounds in much of Woolf’s writing and Mrs. Dalloway is no exception. Clarissa, Septimus and Rezia are all described like birds in various places throughout the novel. Rezia is compared to a protective, maternal hen as she tells Dr.

Holmes, “No. I will not allow you to see my husband” (163). But this “little hen” cannot compete with Holmes, a “powerfully built man” who simply puts her aside without a moment’s hesitation. Jesse Wolfe argues that “whether Rezia is a fit partner for Septimus can never be fully ascertained” (44). But perhaps there is nothing Rezia can do to save her husband from his own thoughts and his suffering. Perhaps marriage and good intentions can only do so much to help someone recover from so much grief and depression. Furthermore, Wolfe argues that Septimus’ androgynous qualities (he helps

Rezia make hats, he loves nature, he is sensitive, he suffers, he is weak and pale - but he is also a hardened war veteran) help serve his compassion and gentleness (41). This is an interesting observation and in this sense, Septimus is portrayed in stark contrast to more

30 masculine and patriarchal characters such Richard, Peter, and Mr. Ramsay. Perhaps if

Septimus had never gone to war he would have proven to be the ideal husband who boasts both female and male qualities.

Septimus’ suicide has often been called brave, a triumph, and an escape from the drudgeries of daily life and a dull marriage. Perhaps Septimus has homosexual leanings like Rachel and Clarissa and perhaps, like Rachel, death is his only option in order to avoid further losing himself. But it is difficult to see his suicide as a noble triumph when

Woolf describes it as though it is a joke. Moments before he spontaneously flings himself out of a window, Septimus stumbles around his apartment, desperately trying to find something to kill himself with, and the thoughts going through his mind are the stuff of dark comedy:

Holmes was coming upstairs. Holmes would burst open the door. Holmes

would say, “In a funk, eh?” Holmes would get him. But no; not Holmes;

not Bradshaw. Getting up rather unsteadily, hopping indeed from foot to

foot, he considered Mrs. Filmers’ nice clean bread-knife with “Bread”

carved on the handle. Ah, but one mustn’t spoil that. The gas fire? But it

was too late now. Holmes was coming ... There remained only the

window, the large Bloomsbury lodging-house window; tiresome, the

troublesome, and rather melodramatic business of opening the window

and throwing himself out. (163)

The repetition of Holmes’ impending arrival and Septimus pathetically, unsteadily hopping from foot to foot has a darkly humorous tone. His decision that he cannot kill

31 himself with Mrs. Filmers’ “nice clean bread-knife” because he would “spoil” it, is also morbidly funny as Woolf captures the mundane, trivial thoughts that run through his mind even in the moments before committing suicide. To him, this bread-knife has more value than his own life. He is apparently so depressed that he finds the whole business of killing himself “tiresome,” “troublesome” and “melodramatic,” as though he might not actually kill himself because it takes too much effort, like doing the dishes or putting on one’s clothes. But he eventually does, waiting “till the very last moment because he “did not want to die. Life was good. The sun was hot.” (164). His ambivalent thoughts before killing himself are loaded with irony. When Holmes’ cries out, “The coward!” upon making this discovery, and promptly offers Rezia a sweet drink, the bathos is most evident. The reader gets the sense that life will go on much the same, just as the clock keeps on striking throughout the novel.

When Clarissa learns of this young man’s death, she wonders, “had he plunged holding his treasure?” and she thinks about how she would have been happy to die at her happiest moment, dressed in white and about to meet Sally (202). But Septimus does not die at his happiest, and the only treasure he holds onto is perhaps the fact that he is taking his life into his own hands. He has the satisfaction of getting away from his doctor and his illness. Woolf’s choice to describe him as landing on a railing has a startling and gruesome effect and demonstrates Woolf’s refusal to make his death romantic and wholly triumphant.

Annalee Edmondson makes several interesting points about Clarissa Dalloway’s character and the extent to which Woolf purposely refuses to give the reader a “complete

32 inside view” of Clarissa. Edmondson argues that in creating Septimus’ character, Woolf created a “double” for Clarissa, and that his suicide occurs “in place of” Clarissa’s (24). It is true that both characters are often preoccupied by thoughts of death, nature, and poetry, and they even quote the same Shakespearean lines: “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun /

Nor the furious winter’s rages” (10). These lines bring to mind the comforting embrace of death after a long struggle. Yet while Clarissa fears getting older and eventually dying, the world moving on long after she is gone, Septimus does not. After learning that her husband is out lunching with Lady Bruton, the narrator describes how “[n]o vulgar jealousy could separate [Clarissa] from Richard. She feared time itself, and read on Lady

Bruton's face, as if it had been a dial cut in impassive stone, the dwindling of life; how year by year her share was sliced” (32). To Clarissa, Lady Bruton’s aging reminds her of her own, and of her inescapable death. It is worth pointing out that the Dalloways’ marriage is strong enough that Clarissa is apparently not jealous of the fact that he is dining with another woman and that she herself has not been invited. She is merely disappointed that she was not invited because Lady Bruton’s parties “were said to be extraordinarily amusing” (32).

Ultimately, Septimus’ death affirms Clarissa’s love of life and desire to make other people happy. Clarissa’s thoughts on death show that, according to her at least,

Septimus’ suicide is a triumph: “Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate ... There was an embrace in death” (202). In finding out this news Clarissa shows that she understands and even approves of his action: “The clock began striking.

The young man had killed himself; but she did not pity him, with all this going on,”

33 referring to her party guests who are described as “still laughing and shouting in the drawing-room” (204). The words “[f]ear no more the heat of the sun” come back to her at this time, suggesting that she no longer fears death. She has found her role in life and she is satisfied with it: “She must assemble. She must find Sally and Peter” (204).

34 CHAPTER IV

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE (1927): PUBLIC FACES, PRIVATE THOUGHTS

Two years after Mrs. Dalloway’s publication in 1925, To the Lighthouse was published and was largely hailed as a masterpiece and a powerful example of the stream- of-consciousness technique Woolf had been experimenting with over the years. In this novel we meet another mature, married woman, but this time she has eight children as opposed to just one. Like Clarissa, Mrs. Ramsay excels at throwing dinner parties and smoothing over awkward situations. Mrs. Ramsay appears to be some sort of

“Superwoman” on whom her husband, eight children, and even the lighthouse keeper’s crippled child largely depend. Like Clarissa, her marriage is far from perfect, but there is the overarching sense that in spite of Mr. Ramsay’s occasional grumpiness and feelings of inadequacy and Mrs. Ramsay’s inability to say, “I love you,” there is a strong, loving bond and mutual understanding between them. Similar to Mrs. Dalloway, To the

Lighthouse presents what a mature kind of love can look like and is perhaps an extension of some of Woolf’s evolving thoughts on marriage that she began to explore when she first created Clarissa and Richard’s characters in The Voyage Out.

There are numerous instances in the novel in which the reader is given an insight into how Mrs. Ramsay views marriage in general. It appears that she believes that marriage will be either the rise or the downfall of a man. Upon discussing the opium addicted Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Ramsay says to Charles Tansley, “He should have been a

35 great philosopher … but he had made an unfortunate marriage” (10). Her matter-of-fact tone reveals the extent to which she thinks that marriage can either make or break someone. The fact that Mr. Carmichael’s beard is stained white from opium use shows that there is probably much more that has attributed to his current state of affairs than simply making an “unfortunate marriage.” Indeed, he also happens to be a successful poet, but much like her lack of appreciation for Lily’s paintings, Mrs. Ramsay does not find much worth in poetry, possibly because she is embarrassed every time her husband awkwardly quotes poetry at the dinner table. Furthermore, Mrs. Ramsay believes that everyone must marry in order to enjoy the best things in life, and while Woolf could have made her sound ridiculous, she instead writes in such a way that Mrs. Ramsay’s conviction seems to come from genuine belief and good intentions, even if she is wrong:

All this she would adroitly shape; even maliciously twist; and, moving over to the window, in pretense that she must go,—it was dawn, she could see the sun rising,—half turn back, more intimately, but still always laughing, insist that she must, Minta must, they all must marry, since in the whole world whatever laurels might be tossed to her (but

Mrs. Ramsay cared not a fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her (probably Mrs.

Ramsay had had her share of those), and here she saddened, darkened, and came back to her chair, there could be no disputing this: an unmarried woman (she lightly took her hand for a moment), an unmarried woman has missed the best of life. (49)

By describing how Mrs. Ramsay’s face saddens and darkens and how she takes Lily’s hand in hers, Woolf emphasizes the power of Mrs. Ramsay’s convictions, her concern for

Lily’s well-being, and her tendency to use her tender nature to reach out to others. Of

36 course, by writing, “there could be no disputing this,” Woolf also cheekily pokes fun at

Mrs. Ramsay, who apparently believes that her opinion is absolute. The fact that Mrs.

Ramsay’s face darkens simultaneously shows how serious she is about the matter while also making her appear rather melodramatic, as though she is about to tell Lily that she has a fatal disease. Mrs. Ramsay has no idea what it is like to be Lily, and is hardly able to determine what exactly constitutes “the best of life.”

Mrs. Ramsay’s character is further complicated when, while seating herself at the head of the table at yet another of her dinner parties, she thinks to herself, “What have I done with my life?” and upon seeing her husband frowning, wonders, “how she had ever felt any emotion or affection for him” (82-83). One is left to ponder why a woman capable of such thoughts is so enthusiastically advocating the benefits of marriage to seemingly anyone who will listen. Similar to Rachel and Clarissa, Mrs. Ramsay presents a confident and happy face to the world in order to cover up her inner doubts and fears.

Perhaps one of the reasons she plods on so evenly is because she believes she is needed.

Ironically, she pities William Bankes who “had no wife, and no children and dined alone in lodgings except for tonight; and in pity for him ... she began all this business, as a sailor not without weariness sees the wind fill his sail and yet hardly wants to be off again and thinks how, had the ship sunk, he would have ... found rest on the floor of the sea”

(84). In this passage, Woolf likens Mrs. Ramsay to a brave sailor who soldiers in spite of extreme weariness and fatigue. Little does Mrs. Ramsay know that William would rather be home alone finishing his work, instead of enduring the long, drawn-out process of a dinner party.

37 By choosing to not have Lily eventually marry her good friend William Bankes,

Woolf shows how, unlike Mrs. Ramsay, forty-four-year-old Lily does not need a husband and children to be happy. Woolf explains how William’s friendship means a great deal to

Lily: “Thanks to his scientific mind he understood – a proof of disinterested intelligence which had pleased her and comforted her enormously. One could talk of painting then seriously to a man. Indeed, his friendship had been one of the pleasures of her life. She loved William Bankes” (176). Similar to the Dalloways and the Ramsays, there is mutual understanding and comfort in silence. Her “love” for William is most likely platonic for there does not appear to be any evidence to suggest otherwise, and yet, Woolf writes how

“[t]hat was typical of their relationship. Many things were left unsaid” (176). Here we have an instance in which an unmarried man and woman are acting as though they are married in the sense that they can walk for long periods of time without saying a word to each other; perhaps this detail is meant to suggest that one does not need a marriage license in order to benefit from the companionship of the opposite sex.

It is also worth noting that Mrs. Ramsay does not care at all for Lily’s paintings, focusing primarily on the fact that Lily is not married; however, for Lily, her art is her one true love. As she listens to patronizing Charles Tansley drone on about being in a lighthouse during a thunderstorm, she thinks about how he “would never know her” and as a result, she has an epiphany about how to change her painting: “she remembered that next morning she would move the tree further towards the middle, and her spirits rose so high at the thought of painting tomorrow that she laughed out loud at what Mr. Tansley was saying. Let him talk all night if he liked it” (92). Lily’s thoughts about painting

38 distract and cheer her, thus revealing how she uses art as both a means of escape and as a means of reflecting on and making sense of her own world. By being able to move the tree to the middle of her painting, she metaphorically takes charge of her own life. As a largely abstract work, her painting represents a refusal to confine to society’s norms and expectations. Just as Lily refuses to paint Mrs. Ramsay and her son James in a realistic manner, she refuses to get married even when stubborn, influential people such as Mrs.

Ramsay are advising her to join the ranks. The abstract nature of Mrs. Ramsay as represented by a few lines and a purple shadow may also serve to represent how a person can never be wholly and accurately defined and understood. Just as Charles Tansley will never understand Lily, Lily will never understand Mrs. Ramsay and vice versa. Towards the end of the novel, Lily reflects on Mrs. Ramsay’s legacy and how “[f]ifty pairs of eyes were not enough to get around that one woman” (198). The image of fifty pairs of eyes captures the impossibility of ever truly seeing all sides and facets of one person at the same time.

Although William is not an artist himself, having a “scientific mind,” he respects

Lily’s explanation as to why she chooses to paint the Ramsays in an abstract manner, and upon hearing her explanation, he is satisfied (176). As the two friends go on to discuss mundane topics such as buying new carpet for William’s staircase, it becomes even clearer how the pair have achieved a comfortable and easy friendship without any sexual tension or confusion. In this sense, Lily and William are not very different from the

Dalloways who probably have a sexless marriage, and are most certainly like the Woolfs who were widely known to be more friends and colleagues than lovers.

39 As William impatiently waits to be served dinner at the Ramsays’ home, his inner thoughts reveal that, like Lily, he has no desire to have a family, thinking frequently of the annoying interruptions that having children brings. Woolf describes how “he preferred dining alone. All those interruptions annoyed him” and that “he thought that if he had been alone dinner would have been almost over now; he would have been free to work” (88). Through the characterization of William, and also at various times, through the characterization of Mr. Ramsay, Woolf points out how having a family makes it more difficult to get work done, and by extension, one can assume that if Lily had married and had children she would not have had as much time to fulfill her passion for painting.

William’s lack of interest in having a family also stems from his apparent belief that there is no point in propagating the human species. The darkly humorous tone in the following passage is meant to develop William’s character as a proud bachelor who stands in stark contrast to the fertile Mrs. Ramsay: “The truth was that he did not enjoy family life. It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself, What does one live for? Why, one asked oneself, does one take all these pains for the human race to go on? Is it so very desirable?

Are we attractive as a species? Not so very, he thought, looking at those rather untidy boys” (89). William’s grumpy musings are probably not meant to be taken too seriously, but this stark juxtaposition between marriage and bachelorhood brings to mind Terence’s own cynical ponderings on marriage before he proposes to Rachel in The Voyage Out.

Similarly, Woolf sets up Lily, the single, middle-aged artist, in stark contrast to

Paul Rayley, the young man whose marriage to Minta lasts only one year. While Paul is inspired by the sometimes pushy Mrs. Ramsay to propose, Lily refuses to give into the

40 expectations of her patriarchal society which deem it necessary for a woman to marry in order to have a full life.

After being snubbed by Paul who does not accept her invitation to help him find

Minta’s missing brooch, Lily thinks to herself, “she need not marry, thank Heaven: she need not undergo that degradation. She was saved from that dilution. She would move the tree rather more to the middle” (102). In this passage, Lily refers once again to her painting of Mrs. Ramsay and James, a painting that means much more to her than perhaps any relationship she has ever had. Lily also reflects on the power of love to change a person, thinking to herself, “It is so beautiful, so exciting, this love, that I tremble on the verge of it ... also it is the stupidest, the most barbaric of human passions, and turns a nice young man with a profile like a gem’s ... into a bully with a crowbar”

(102-103). This ambivalence toward love echoes that of Virginia Woolf. Many critics have written about the extent to which Lily Briscoe is portrayed in order to represent

Woolf herself, a middle-aged woman preoccupied by thoughts on gender and art, and who is more interested in finishing her latest artistic project than in pursuing romance. In the same vein, Lily goes on to think about how love is at once “tedious, puerile, and inhumane” but also “beautiful and necessary” (103). This contradictory language, although highly subjective, speaks to the pain and torture of love just as much as the beauty of it.

The fact that Paul and Minta’s marriage only lasts one year, though they remain best friends, may be Woolf’s way of showing how much stronger and more authentic the

Ramsay marriage is in comparison; this short marriage may also serve to suggest that not

41 all men and women who are attracted to each other should get married. Finally, it is important to note that it is Mrs. Ramsay who convinces Paul to propose, and that it is entirely possible that Paul and Minta never would have married had it not been for her role. Similarly, the lasting, non-sexual friendship between Lily and William demonstrates that men and women of like minds do not necessarily need marriage to enjoy and benefit from each other’s company. William is the only character in the novel who appears to understand and appreciate Lily’s painting, yet this meeting of minds does not have to translate into marriage. Perhaps William’s character is Woolf’s way of suggesting that she had doubts about marrying Leonard, for they could have had a lifelong friendship instead of a marriage.

Natania Rosenfeld writes that To the Lighthouse “is both nostalgic for a marital mode embodied by the Ramsays and absolute in its critique of that mode” (12), but perhaps it is not fair to label anything written by Virginia Woolf as “absolute.” Woolf’s portrayal of the Ramsays is highly nuanced and their relationship is shown from many different angles, some revealing positive aspects and others negative. Unlike most other characters in the novel, readers are never given Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay’s first names.

Woolf’s choice to omit their first names suggests their commonness in the sense that they can represent Everyman and Everywoman and therefore “Every couple.” Or perhaps their naming could simply be meant to reflect that their identities are tied up in their marriage, just as Mrs. Dalloway’s title is Mrs. Dalloway rather than Clarissa. Having never gotten along with Mr. Ramsay, Lily calls Mr. Ramsay "tyrannical" and "unjust" (46) while

42 Victor Brombert calls him a “self-centered philosopher” (434), but perhaps these descriptions are unjustified. I prefer Mark Gaipa’s more sympathetic reading in which

Mr. Ramsay is referred to as a “restless spirit” (20). It is clear early on in the novel that

Mr. Ramsay depends a great deal on his wife and he expects a great deal of her as well, for "[i]t was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of his genius, first of all, and then to be taken within the circle of life, warmed and soothed, to have his senses restored to him, his barrenness made fertile, and all the rooms of the house made full of life" (37). Gaipa asserts that Mr. Ramsay’s “unreasonable dependency” is due to the fact that he “needs his wife ... to assuage his failure at being a great philosopher” (17). Perhaps the

“barrenness” that Woolf writes of refers to his intellectual and philosophical failures, and in this sense he needs not only a mother for his eight children but a life coach and muse as well. Readers are left with mixed emotions, torn between feeling sorry for Mr. Ramsay and being frustrated by his demanding nature.

Not surprisingly, Mrs. Ramsay seems to expect more from her husband and sometimes finds him to be a disappointment. Like Clarissa, she has doubts about her husband. Upon repeatedly admitting to her that he is a failure, Mrs. Ramsay’s irritation and disapproval is evident, for she “did not like, even for a second, to feel finer than her husband … his coming to her like that, openly, so that anyone could see, that discomposed her; for then people said he depended on her, when they must know that of the two he was infinitely the more important, and what she gave the world, in comparison with what he gave, negligible” (39). It appears that Mrs. Ramsay is bent on maintaining the illusion that her husband is the so-called better person - more successful, more

43 powerful, and more important. While some women might find it refreshing and even endearing to hear their husbands admit personal failure, Mrs. Ramsay is more concerned that someone might overhear his admission and thus know the truth - that he depends on her. Then again, for a woman who is raising eight children, perhaps the last thing Mrs.

Ramsay needs or wants is a dependent husband; from this perspective, her feelings about her husband’s supposed failure are much more understandable and even worthy of sympathy.

Despite this apparent unequal power dynamic, Woolf also takes pains to show that the Ramsays, despite their disappointments, ultimately, love and appreciate each other.

Mrs. Ramsay has a talent for smoothing over her husband’s sometimes melancholy comments and for helping him to see the bright side of things:

It annoyed her, this phrase-making, and she said to him, in a matter-of

fact way, that it was a perfectly lovely evening. And what was he groaning

about, she asked, half laughing, half complaining, for she guessed what he

was thinking—he would have written better books if he had not married.

He was not complaining, he said. She knew that he did not complain. She

knew that he had nothing whatever to complain of. And he seized her

hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it with an intensity that brought

the tears to her eyes, and quickly he dropped it. (69-70)

This is an interesting passage because Woolf points out the compromises and sacrifices that one must make when one gets married and has children, but overall, one gets the overwhelming sense that the sacrifice and hard work are worth it. Sometimes these

44 sacrifices come in the form of small gestures such as Mr. Ramsay pretending to admire flowers only to please his wife. It is these seemingly ordinary moments that show their bond and commitment to one another. In another example of this bond, the couple is seen reading, and once their eyes meet they seem to have a silent conversation in which one quick glance communicates their thoughts. Woolf describes how their

eyes met for a second; but they did not want to speak to each other. They

had nothing to say, but something seemed, nevertheless, to go from him to

her. It was the life, it was the power of it, it was the tremendous humour,

she knew, that made him slap his thighs. Don’t interrupt me, he seemed to

be saying, don’t say anything; just sit there. And he went on reading. (119)

Woolf’s writing makes it difficult to ascertain with confidence whether or not this is a positive or a negative exchange. Mr. Ramsay’s ability to silence his wife with a mere glance of his eyes is unsettling, but the fact that she allows him to do so because she knows his book is fortifying him after what he feels is a boring and tedious dinner party shows that she understands his needs. He allows her to have her dinner parties, and she allows him to have his quiet reading time. This give and take, this compromise, is at the heart of a healthy marriage.

Woolf demonstrates the complex thoughts of many characters in her novels, and this novel is no exception. In the following passage, Mr. Ramsay’s thoughts show that while he finds his wife exceptionally beautiful, he has little respect for her intellect, acting somewhat like “an archetype of masculinity” (Brombert 434). As he watches his wife reading he thinks,

45 Go on reading. You don’t look sad now, he thought. And he wondered

what she was reading, and exaggerated her ignorance, her simplicity, for

he liked to think that she was not clever, not book-learned at all. He

wondered if she understood what she was reading. Probably not, he

thought. She was astonishingly beautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, if

that were possible, to increase. (121)

While it is easy to be frustrated by his inability or refusal to give his wife sufficient credit, his love for her is nonetheless evident. He wants her to continue reading because she no longer looks sad, and in his eyes, she grows more beautiful over time. So while he is clearly not attracted to his wife for her mind, there is no doubt that Richard is in love with his wife’s physical beauty. The fact that, according to him, she appears to “increase” in beauty, despite the fact that she is in her fifties, suggests that he is so taken by her beauty that he doesn’t even notice that she is getting older or that he is increasingly attracted to her over time. Either way, his affection for her is obvious, and perhaps this relationship is enough for Mrs. Ramsay, who is usually preoccupied with all of the duties of mothering eight children as well as entertaining numerous visitors on a regular basis.

Similar to Richard’s inability to tell Clarissa that he loves her, Mrs. Ramsay refuses to tell her husband how she feels:

A heartless woman he called her; she never told him that she loved him.

But it was not so - it was not so. It was only that she never could say what

she felt ... She knew that he was thinking, You are more beautiful than

ever. And she felt herself very beautiful. Will you not tell me just for once

46 that you love me? ... But she could not do it, could not say it...And as she

looked at him she began to smile, for though she had not said a word, he

knew, of course he knew, that she loved him. He could not deny it. And

smiling she looked out of the window and said (thinking to herself,

Nothing on earth can equal this happiness). (123-124)

As is typical of many passages in Woolf’s novels, it is difficult to determine which lines are meant to reflect the character’s thoughts and which lines are that of the narrator, and by extension, perhaps even Woolf. Nevertheless, the repetition of “it was not so - it was not so” is insistent and has a fairly convincing effect on the reader. When she returns his stare with a smile, she seems to silently be communicating her feelings for him. Like

Richard’s handing over of flowers to Clarissa, Mrs. Ramsay shows she loves her husband without actually saying the words. She does not believe that one has to directly declare one’s love because actions can speak louder than words. Mrs. Ramsay shows her love by throwing wonderful dinner parties and looking after all of the children’s needs. After much debate about whether or not the weather will allow the family to go to the lighthouse, Mrs. Ramsay eventually concedes to her husband’s opinion and tells him,

“Yes, you were right. It’s going to be wet tomorrow, You won’t be able to go” (124).

Perhaps this is her own way of telling her husband that she loves him, admitting that he was right all along. But it is not as though she did not know this fact herself - she was simply protecting her youngest child from realizing the likelihood that they would not be going to the lighthouse in the morning.

47 Perhaps one of the reasons that Mrs. Ramsay is able to tolerate her husband so well is because of her children. While her children obviously create a lot of work for her, they also fill her with a great deal of joy. Mrs. Ramsay loves being a mother and she wishes that her children would stay the same way forever: “Why, she asked, pressing her chin on James’ head, should they grow up so fast? Why should they go to school? She would have liked always to have had a baby. She was happiest carrying one in her arms.

Then people might say she was tyrannical, domineering, masterful, if they chose; she did not mind” (59). This passage tells the reader two things: that she is happiest when holding a baby, and that she does care if she is criticized for thinking such a thing. As Mrs.

Ramsay kisses her youngest child’s head, she thinks, “he will never be so happy again, but stopped herself, remembering how it angered her husband that she should say that.

Still, it was true” (58-59). It is interesting how she internalizes her husband’s opinion to the point that she actually stops herself from thinking something with which he would disagree, a possible sign of respect for her husband. While some critics argue that this passage shows that her mind has been overtaken by her husband’s, Woolf’s decision to add, “Still, it was true” suggests that while she is aware of her husband’s viewpoint, she is ultimately in control of her own thoughts and is able to mentally stand up to her husband who is not even in the room.

Like Rachel and Septimus, Mrs. Ramsay dies suddenly and thus escapes a sometimes difficult marriage. Rosenfeld argues that Mrs. Ramsay is “overworked by her demanding husband” and is a victim of “endless self-sacrifice” (4). While it is easy to observe Mr. Ramsay’s often grumpy and ungrateful attitude toward his wife and family,

48 Rosenfeld fails to appreciate all of the positive moments when there is evidence of mutual love and admiration. Like Clarissa, Mrs. Ramsay enjoys entertaining. It is important to note that, just like the Dalloways, their marriage makes it possible to put on such parties as the husband provides the place and the means with which to do so.

Woolf’s choice to emphasize the dilapidation of the house after Mrs. Ramsay’s death symbolizes Mrs. Ramsay’s incredibly important role in the lives of her husband and children. The morning after her death, Mr. Ramsay reaches out his hands, presumably to his dead wife, and the reader is left to assume that he is struck with grief over his loss:

"Mr. Ramsay, stumbling along a passage one dark morning, stretched his arms out, but

Mrs. Ramsay having died rather suddenly the night before, his arms, though stretched out, remained empty" (128). Just as his arms remain empty, so does the house for the better part of the next ten years. In “Time Passes,” rather than describing to the reader what the Ramsay family has been up to all of these years, Woolf chooses, instead, to spend an entire section of the novel describing in great detail, the extent to which the house is deteriorating without Mrs. Ramsay to look after it. As the elderly Mrs. McNab looks over what has been become of the Ramsay’s home, she observes rats in the attic, mold everywhere, and rain coming in through the cracks in the roof. As the person in charge of restoring the home after years of abandonment, Mrs. McNab remarks how

“there was too much work for one woman” (137) and her thought here has a double meaning: looking after this house is too much work for Mrs. McNab in the present and looking after this house was too much work for Mrs. Ramsay in the past.

49 Truly, the house is a personification of Mrs. Ramsay herself. While many critics view her death as an escape from the hard work of her life, my reading of her death is that it serves to emphasize the extent to which Mrs. Ramsay’s family depended on her for practical, emotional, and social well-being. By showing how so much has physically changed after her death, her absence is more powerfully noticed. Upon returning to the house many years later, after the deaths of Mrs. Ramsay, Andrew, and Prue, and just before the family is about to finally set off for the lighthouse, Mr. Ramsay storms out of the room, shouting, “What’s the use of going now?” (146). This sudden display of emotion suggests that to him, there is no reason to go on the trip without his wife and it all seems pointless without her. At this point, his temper, while usually irritating, is emotionally stirring and justifiable in light of his horrific loss. This sense of chaos and confusion is further developed as Lily is totally perplexed about what the family should bring to the lighthouse, something that Mrs. Ramsay would have known almost instinctively. Lily wonders to herself,

What does one send to the Lighthouse indeed! ... this morning everything

seemed so extraordinarily queer that a question like Nancy’s - What does

one send to the Lighthouse - opened doors in one’s mind that went

banging and swinging to and fro and made one keep asking, in a stupefied

gape, What does one send? What does one do? Why is one sitting here,

after all? (146)

The hyperbolic language of “stupefied gape” shows how Lily is seemingly incapable of organizing the household and serves to contrast sharply with Mrs. Ramsay’s talent for

50 keeping the family organized. But of course, life goes on and the Ramsays eventually make it to the lighthouse, with a “badly packed” (208) package prepared by Nancy, a gift for the lighthouse men. As Mr. Ramsay rests the package on his knee, he is found to be

“[s]taring and staring at the frail blue shape which seemed like the vapour of something that had burnt itself away” (207). This ghostly image may be a subtle reference to Mrs.

Ramsay, who, according to many critics, probably “burnt” herself out with the sheer exhaustion of keeping the household running smoothly. If this is true, then, similar to

Rachel’s death, perhaps Mrs. Ramsay’s death is meant to serve as warning to readers about giving too much of oneself to a marriage and a family.

51 CHAPTER V

CONCLUSION

In The Voyage Out, Woolf begins her exploration of marriage by portraying young, unmarried Rachel Vinrace, who is wrestling with the idea of becoming engaged and of being physically intimate with a man. Rachel’s voyage is a metaphor for her own coming of age in a world of patriarchal traditions and expectations; her death is a symbol of her refusal to participate in such a world. In Mrs. Dalloway, the protagonist, Clarissa

Dalloway, is middle–aged and has a husband and child. Despite occasional doubts about her choice of partner, Clarissa accepts and, at times, embraces her role as wife, mother, and party planner. Her husband gives her space, time, and the financial means with which to use her skills as a hostess. In To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Ramsay has eight children as opposed to just one, and her husband is more difficult and insecure than Richard

Dalloway. Outwardly, she submits to her husband’s negativity and bad moods, but she is also a gifted party planner and seems to feel it is her role as a mother and wife to bring people together and to try to make everyone happy. As Virginia Woolf aged, so did her protagonists, for they grew not only in terms of years but also in terms of responsibilities; although Mrs. Dalloway and Mrs. Ramsay are roughly the same age, one could argue that

Mrs. Ramsay seems older because she is worn out as the mother of eight children and the wife of a demanding husband.

By comparing and contrasting the female protagonists in these three novels, one notices an overall shift from youthful ignorance and fear of marriage and sex in The

52 Voyage Out, to self-acceptance and understanding that comes from age and experience in

Mrs. Dalloway, to ultimately, the acceptance of the sacrifices that marriage and motherhood entail in To the Lighthouse. Mrs. Ramsay’s death is troubling in the sense that it is often attributed to her exhausting responsibilities, and may serve as a reminder of the heroic efforts of so many mothers who simply want the best for their families.

Interestingly, the only female protagonist who survives in these novels is Mrs. Dalloway; this might suggest that she has the most ideal of all three situations, for she is in a relatively happy and stable marriage, and she has been given the freedom and privacy that she needs and wants. Perhaps by having both Rachel and Mrs. Ramsay die, Woolf is warning her readers about the danger of giving too much of oneself to others. Just as

Friar Lawrence advises Romeo and Juliet to “love moderately,” Woolf may be advising her readers to do the same.

As Woolf’s female protagonists evolve from one novel to the next, so do her male characters. In The Voyage Out, Terence is young and outwardly sexist, and he overtly attempts to change his fiancé by criticizing her one true passion, playing the piano, and remarking that she is simple-minded and ordinary. He uses his physical prowess to intimidate Rachel, even tearing her dress once during a wrestle on the ground. In Mrs.

Dalloway, Richard is middle-aged, a simple and traditional man; but he is not outwardly sexist, vain, or physically domineering like Terence. He does not attempt to change his wife, nor does he criticize her. Finally, in To the Lighthouse, we meet an insecure, and at times, regretful Mr. Ramsay who calls himself a failure and resents how his family has prevented him from having a more successful career. Though he is not physically

53 domineering, everyone around him is affected by his bad temper and mood swings. He is very dependent on his wife, to the point that it exhausts her, but nonetheless, he loves her.

Finally, Septimus’ death demonstrates how even a love as strong as that between the

Smiths cannot survive the weight of mental illness due to post-traumatic disorder.

Nothing can save Septimus, not even his loving, well-intentioned wife.

When one considers the deaths of Rachel, Septimus, and Mrs. Ramsay, it is tempting to conclude that Woolf is suggesting that death is preferable to marriage, but doing so would fail to take into account all of the positive moments in Mrs. Dalloway and

To the Lighthouse when married couples are clearly in love, and are mutually benefitting from their union. Many critics dwell on the extent to which Woolf’s female protagonists in these novels are victims of their marriages (or in Rachel’s case, a victim of her engagement). Though the power balance between the men and women is never equal,

Woolf takes careful pains to show both the benefits and the drawbacks of marriage, thus depicting all of its aspects and ultimately, giving her readers a fuller picture of the positive and negative effects of marriage on both men and women. In The Voyage Out, readers witness the profound way in which getting engaged can affect a person, and in

Rachel’s case, her doubts and insecurities about marriage ultimately lead to her destruction, but this does not mean that marriage is necessarily a poor choice for all women.

In Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse, in typical Victorian fashion, the women rule the domestic spaces while the men rule the spaces outside of the home. In these novels, this division of space, for the most part, benefits the women in the sense that they

54 are able to thrive as social artists and community makers, while the men benefit directly from their wives’ ability to create a warm and caring home environment which has been made financially possible by the men. Ultimately, Woolf shows her readers how marriage involves great sacrifices but also enormous benefits, and that it is vital to maintain a sense of self-awareness and self-worth if one is to thrive as an individual in a marriage.

WORKS CITED

56

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