Mrs Dalloway at 100: Virginia Woolf’s timeless novel is a work of pandemic fiction

Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, set on a June day in 1923, is unusual in that its two protagonists – society hostess Clarissa Dalloway and shell-shocked veteran Septimus Smith – never meet.

Published 100 years ago on May 14 1925, the novel follows Clarissa as she prepares to host a party. She is visited by a former suitor, Peter Walsh, who has just returned from India. Her movements on London’s streets are intertwined with those of her husband, Richard, and daughter, Elizabeth, as well as a host of minor characters.

Simultaneously, Septimus is experiencing what we would now understand as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) caused by his service in the first world war. His sense of London as an apocalyptic war zone is exacerbated by his treatment at the hands of his doctors and their refusal to “hear” his trauma.

Mrs Dalloway has inspired and continues to inspire numerous creative responses and reworkings, such as Michael Cunningham’s novel The Hours (1998) and Wayne McGregor’s triptych ballet Woolf Works (2015). The novel now has its own biography by Mark Hussey due to be published next month and DallowayDay celebrations that echo James Joyce’s Bloomsday.

A century on, Mrs Dalloway speaks in so many ways to our own moment of militarisation, neo-imperialism and political crisis. In her diary, Woolf wrote that she wanted to “criticise the social system and to show it at work” and the novel offers an often excoriating critique of the military industrial complex of interwar Britain.

This article is part of Rethinking the Classics. The stories in this series offer insightful new ways to think about and interpret classic books and artworks. This is the canon – with a twist.

In her representation of returned soldier Septimus Smith’s PTSD, Woolf complicates the characters’ refrain that the “war is over” and the collective refusal to acknowledge the trauma of trench warfare. She was ahead of her time as a woman writing about war and in her literary depiction of the term and experience of “shell shock” so soon after the conflict when the condition was still often understood to be cowardice and malingering.

Septimus’s trauma connects to the unspecified “illness” experienced by Clarissa, wife of a Conservative MP, preparing to host a party that evening. Woolf takes this privileged figure, who appears in her first novel The Voyage Out (1915) as a satirical cameo, and in this iteration offers the reader her rich inner life: her complex stream of thoughts, sensations and philosophical musings.

Woolf’s acquaintance Kitty Maxse may have been the model for Clarissa. Kitty fell down the stairs to her death, raising the possibility of suicide. Instead, Woolf has Septimus commit suicide when he is faced with the threat of incarceration and the “rest cure”. News of the tragedy interrupts Clarissa’s party, but she understands his act: “Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate … Somehow it was her disaster – her disgrace.”

Clarissa feels herself, like Septimus, to be expendable: “She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying; no more having of children … this being Mrs Dalloway; not even Clarissa anymore.”

Clarissa is 52 and, while the menopause is not mentioned directly, Woolf touches here in such a prescient way on the medicalisation and pathologising of women’s health. The novel is radical in its centring of a middle-aged protagonist – the novel form bends as it is uncoupled from the marriage plot. Woolf’s complex treatment of ageing – “she felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged” – and the sense of both loss and possibility is acutely felt.

Clarissa’s conformity to social expectations includes the suppression of her queer desires. Alone in her upstairs room, she reminisces about her “falling in love with women” and more specifically, her kiss with Sally Seton: “the most exquisite moment of her whole life … the whole world might have turned upside down!” Again, in her representation of queer lives, Woolf overturned the status quo.

Mrs Dalloway and the pandemic

In its engagement with feminist and queer politics, then, the novel has enduring appeal. But its post-COVID appreciation as a pandemic novel has meant that the novel has been read afresh by a whole new audience. Woolf and Clarissa are both survivors of the post-first world war influenza pandemic (known as the Spanish flu), which infected a third of the global population and caused an estimated 50-100 million deaths.

We learn that Clarissa had “grown very white since her illness”, “her heart, affected, they said, by influenza”. Her sheer joy at walking London’s summer streets and mixing with crowds of passersby is a legacy of the pandemic as is the sense of loss and tolling of bells that echo through the novel.

Critic Elizabeth Outka in Viral Modernism: the Influenza Pandemic and Interwar Literature (2019) has read the pandemic into the novel’s mobile and multifarious perspective.

[It has] a narrative perspective that could move as nimbly among bodies as a virus, a plot defined less by linear timelines and more by temporal and experiential fluidity, and a structure that could express the delirious, hallucinatory reality that infused the culture.

Clarissa has a poignant sense of the horror (“it was very, very dangerous to live even one day”) and joy (“in the triumph and the jingle … was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June”) of existence.

The legacy of the war is present not only in Septimus’s trauma but in a wider civilian trepidation. In one scene, a skywriting aeroplane recalls the aerial and aural threat of wartime air raids over London. In another, a backfiring car sounds to Clarissa like a “violent explosion” or a pistol shot.

The novel both registers the collective trauma of war but finds solace in the noisy, connective dynamism and diversity of urban life. Perhaps it is in Woolf’s acknowledgement of both the enormity and the minutiae of daily existence that this novel continues to speak to a contemporary readership.

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Anna Snaith does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.