Dolly Character Analysis

But she could not bring herself to sit, for fear of crushing her dress—it was so light, so airy. How glad she felt now that she had chosen muslin, and not silk as Auntie Cha had tried to persuade her. The gossamer-like stuff seemed to float around her as she moved, and the cut of the dress made her look so tall and so different from everyday that she hardly recognised herself in the glass; the girl reflected there—in palest blue, with a wreath of cornflowers in her hair—might have been a stranger.

Something hot and stinging came up her throat at this: a kind of gratitude for her pinky-white skin, her big blue eyes and fair curly hair, and pity for those girls who hadn’t got them.

Alas! in getting out a little accident happened. She caught the bottom of one of her flounces—the skirt was made of nothing else—on the iron step, and ripped off the selvedge. Auntie Cha said: “My dear, how clumsy!” She could have cried with vexation.

And now Dolly saw that the hall was full of lovely dresses, some much, much prettier than hers, which suddenly began to seem rather too plain, even a little dowdy; perhaps after all it would have been better to have chosen silk.

Men, looking so splendid in their white shirt fronts, would walk across the floor and seem to be coming […] And then at the last minute they ran away—and it wasn’t her at all, but a girl sitting three seats further on; one who wasn’t even pretty, or her dress either. But her own dress was beginning to get quite tashy, from the way she squeezed her hot hands down in her lap.

At first she made a show of studying her programme; but you couldn’t go on staring at a programme for ever: and presently her shame at its emptiness grew till she could bear it no longer, and, seizing a moment when people were dancing, she slipped it down the front of her dress.

Oh, these men, who walked round and chose just who they fancied and left who they didn’t…how she hated them! It wasn’t fair…it wasn’t fair.

And to this she clung, sitting the while wishing with her whole heart that her dress was black and her hair grey, like Auntie Cha’s […] Yes, to-night she wished she was old… an old, old woman.

She wanted only to be quite alone…where nobody could see her…where nobody would ever see her again […] she tore off the wreath and ripped open her dress, now crushed to nothing from so much sitting, and threw them from her anywhere…

“Well, I don’t know what it was, but the plain truth is, she didn’t take!”

Oh, the shame of it!...the sting and the shame. Her first ball, and not to have “taken,” to have failed to “attract the gentlemen”—this was a slur that would rest on her all her life.

And yet…and yet…in spite of everything, a small voice that wouldn’t be silenced kept on saying: “It wasn’t my fault…it wasn’t my fault!”

She had tried her hardest, done everything she was told to do: had dressed up to please and look pretty, sat in the front row offering her programme, smiled when she didn’t feel a bit like smiling…and almost more than anything she thought she hated the memory of that smile (it was like trying to make people buy something they didn’t think worth while.)

For really, truly, right deep down in her, she hadn’t wanted “the gentlemen” any more than they’d wanted her: she had only had to pretend to.

But she could not bring herself to sit, for fear of crushing her dress—it was so light, so airy. How glad she felt now that she had chosen muslin, and not silk as Auntie Cha had tried to persuade her. The gossamer-like stuff seemed to float around her as she moved, and the cut of the dress made her look so tall and so different from everyday that she hardly recognised herself in the glass; the girl reflected there—in palest blue, with a wreath of cornflowers in her hair—might have been a stranger.

Something hot and stinging came up her throat at this: a kind of gratitude for her pinky-white skin, her big blue eyes and fair curly hair, and pity for those girls who hadn’t got them.

Alas! in getting out a little accident happened. She caught the bottom of one of her flounces—the skirt was made of nothing else—on the iron step, and ripped off the selvedge. Auntie Cha said: “My dear, how clumsy!” She could have cried with vexation.

And now Dolly saw that the hall was full of lovely dresses, some much, much prettier than hers, which suddenly began to seem rather too plain, even a little dowdy; perhaps after all it would have been better to have chosen silk.

Men, looking so splendid in their white shirt fronts, would walk across the floor and seem to be coming […] And then at the last minute they ran away—and it wasn’t her at all, but a girl sitting three seats further on; one who wasn’t even pretty, or her dress either. But her own dress was beginning to get quite tashy, from the way she squeezed her hot hands down in her lap.

At first she made a show of studying her programme; but you couldn’t go on staring at a programme for ever: and presently her shame at its emptiness grew till she could bear it no longer, and, seizing a moment when people were dancing, she slipped it down the front of her dress.

Oh, these men, who walked round and chose just who they fancied and left who they didn’t…how she hated them! It wasn’t fair…it wasn’t fair.

And to this she clung, sitting the while wishing with her whole heart that her dress was black and her hair grey, like Auntie Cha’s […] Yes, to-night she wished she was old… an old, old woman.

She wanted only to be quite alone…where nobody could see her…where nobody would ever see her again […] she tore off the wreath and ripped open her dress, now crushed to nothing from so much sitting, and threw them from her anywhere…

“Well, I don’t know what it was, but the plain truth is, she didn’t take!”

Oh, the shame of it!...the sting and the shame. Her first ball, and not to have “taken,” to have failed to “attract the gentlemen”—this was a slur that would rest on her all her life.

And yet…and yet…in spite of everything, a small voice that wouldn’t be silenced kept on saying: “It wasn’t my fault…it wasn’t my fault!”

She had tried her hardest, done everything she was told to do: had dressed up to please and look pretty, sat in the front row offering her programme, smiled when she didn’t feel a bit like smiling…and almost more than anything she thought she hated the memory of that smile (it was like trying to make people buy something they didn’t think worth while.)

For really, truly, right deep down in her, she hadn’t wanted “the gentlemen” any more than they’d wanted her: she had only had to pretend to.