女性的職業（上）

弗吉尼婭·伍爾夫

When your secretary invited me to come here， she told me that your Society is concerned with the employment of women and she suggested that I might tell you something about my own professional experiences. It is true I am a woman; it is true I am employed; but what professional experiences have I had？ It is difficult to say. My profession is literature; and in that profession there are fewer experiences for women than in any other， with the exception of the stage—fewer， I mean， that are peculiar1 to women. For the road was cut many years ago—by Fanny Burney2， by Aphra Behn3， by Harriet Martineau4， by Jane Austen， by George Eliot—many famous women， and many more unknown and forgotten， have been before me， making the path smooth， and regulating my steps. Thus， when I came to write， there were very few material obstacles in my way. Writing was a reputable and harmless occupation. The family peace was not broken by the scratching of a pen. No demand was made upon the family purse. For ten and sixpence one can buy paper enough to write all the plays of Shakespeare—if one has a mind that way. Pianos and models， Paris， Vienna， and Berlin， masters and mistresses， are not needed by a writer. The cheapness of writing paper is， of course， the reason why women have succeeded as writers before they have succeeded in the other professions.

But to tell you my story—it is a simple one. You have only got to figure to yourselves a girl in a bedroom with a pen in her hand. She had only to move that pen from left to right—from ten oclock to one. Then it occurred to her to do what is simple and cheap enough after all—to slip a few of those pages into an envelope， fix a penny stamp in the corner， and drop the envelope into the red box at the corner. It was thus that I became a journalist; and my effort was rewarded on the first day of the following month—a very glorious day it was for me—by a letter from an editor containing a cheque for one pound ten shillings and sixpence. But to show you how little I deserve to be called a professional woman， how little I know of the struggles and difficulties of such lives， I have to admit that instead of spending that sum upon bread and butter， rent， shoes and stockings， or butchers bills， I went out and bought a cat—a beautiful cat， a Persian cat， which very soon involved me in bitter disputes with my neighbours.

What could be easier than to write articles and to buy Persian cats with the profits？ But wait a moment. Articles have to be about something. Mine， I seem to remember， was about a novel by a famous man. And while I was writing this review， I discovered that if I were going to review books I should need to do battle with a certain phantom. And the phantom was a woman， and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem， The Angel in the House. It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her. You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her—you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken， she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it—in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own， but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all—I need not say it—she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty—her blushes， her great grace. In those days—the last of Queen Victoria—every house had its Angel. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly， that is to say， I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man， she slipped behind me and whispered： “My dear， you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all， be pure.” And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself， though the credit rightly belongs to some excellent ancestors of mine who left me a certain sum of money—shall we say five hundred pounds a year？—so that it was not necessary for me to depend solely on charm for my living. I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse， if I were to be had up in a court of law， would be that I acted in self-defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For， as I found， directly I put pen to paper， you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own， without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations， morality， sex. And all these questions， according to the Angel of the House， cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm， they must conciliate， they must—to put it bluntly—tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus， whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page， I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. She was always creeping back when I thought I had dispatched her. Though I flatter myself that I killed her in the end， the struggle was severe; it took much time that had better have been spent upon learning Greek grammar; or in roaming the world in search of adventures. But it was a real experience; it was an experience that was bound to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer.

But to continue the story of my professional experiences. I made one pound ten and six by my first review; and I bought a Persian cat with the proceeds. Then I grew ambitious. A Persian cat is all very well， I said; but a Persian cat is not enough. I must have a motor car. And it was thus that I became a novelist—for it is a very strange thing that people will give you a motor car if you will tell them a story. It is a still stranger thing that there is nothing so delightful in the world as telling stories. It is far pleasanter than writing reviews of famous novels. And yet， if I am to obey your secretary and tell you my professional experiences as a novelist， I must tell you about a very strange experience that befell14 me as a novelist. And to understand it you must try first to imagine a novelists state of mind. I hope I am not giving away professional secrets if I say that a novelists chief desire is to be as unconscious as possible. He has to induce in himself a state of perpetual lethargy15. He wants life to proceed with the utmost quiet and regularity. He wants to see the same faces， to read the same books， to do the same things day after day， month after month， while he is writing， so that nothing may break the illusion in which he is living—so that nothing may disturb or disquiet the mysterious nosings about， feelings round， darts， dashes and sudden discoveries of that very shy and illusive spirit， the imagination. I suspect that this state is the same both for men and women. Be that as it may， I want you to imagine me writing a novel in a state of trance. I want you to figure to yourselves a girl sitting with a pen in her hand， which for minutes， and indeed for hours， she never dips into the inkpot. The image that comes to my mind when I think of this girl is the image of a fisherman lying sunk in dreams on the verge of a deep lake with a rod held out over the water. She was letting her imagination sweep unchecked round every rock and cranny16 of the world that lies submerged in the depths of our unconscious being. Now came the experience， the experience that I believe to be far commoner with women writers than with men. The line raced through the girls fingers. Her imagination had rushed away. It had sought the pools， the depths， the dark places where the largest fish slumber. And then there was a smash. There was an explosion. There was foam and confusion. The imagination had dashed itself against something hard. The girl was roused from her dream. She was indeed in a state of the most acute and difficult distress. To speak without figure， she had thought of something， something about the body， about the passions which it was unfitting for her as a woman to say. Men， her reason told her， would be shocked. The consciousness of what men will say of a woman who speaks the truth about her passions had roused her from her artists state of unconsciousness. She could write no more. The trance was over. Her imagination could work no longer. This I believe to be a very common experience with women writers—they are impeded by the extreme conventionality of the other sex. For though men sensibly allow themselves great freedom in these respects， I doubt that they realize or can control the extreme severity with which they condemn such freedom in women.

These then were two very genuine experiences of my own. These were two of the adventures of my professional life. The first—killing the Angel in the House—I think I solved. She died. But the second， telling the truth about my own experiences as a body， I do not think I solved. I doubt that any woman has solved it yet. The obstacles against her are still immensely powerful—and yet they are very difficult to define. Outwardly， what is simpler than to write books？ Outwardly， what obstacles are there for a woman rather than for a man？ Inwardly， I think， the case is very different; she has still many ghosts to fight， many prejudices to overcome. Indeed it will be a long time still， I think， before a woman can sit down to write a book without finding a phantom to be slain， a rock to be dashed against. And if this is so in literature， the freest of all professions for women， how is it in the new professions which you are now for the first time entering？

Those are the questions that I should like， had I time， to ask you. And indeed， if I have laid stress upon these professional experiences of mine， it is because I believe that they are， though in different forms， yours also. Even when the path is nominally open—when there is nothing to prevent a woman from being a doctor， a lawyer， a civil servant—there are many phantoms and obstacles， as I believe， looming17 in her way. To discuss and define them is I think of great value and importance; for thus only can the labour be shared， the difficulties be solved. But besides this， it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting， for which we are doing battle with these formidable18 obstacles. Those aims cannot be taken for granted; they must be perpetually questioned and examined. The whole position， as I see it—here in this hall surrounded by women practising for the first time in history I know not how many different professions—is one of extraordinary interest and importance. You have won rooms of your own in the house hitherto exclusively owned by men. You are able， though not without great labour and effort， to pay the rent. You are earning your five hundred pounds a year. But this freedom is only a beginning—the room is your own， but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it， how are you going to decorate it？ With whom are you going to share it， and upon what terms？ These， I think are questions of the utmost importance and interest. For the first time in history you are able to ask them; for the first time you are able to decide for yourselves what the answers should be. Willingly would I stay and discuss those questions and answers—but not to-night. My time is up; and I must cease.

貴團體秘書請我來時告訴我，你們在關注女性就業問題。她建議我可以和你們聊聊我自己的職業經歷。我確實是一名女性，我也確實有工作;但我的職業經歷怎樣呢？很難說。我從事文學創作;在該職業中，經歷不像在其他職業中那么多，戲劇創作除外——我的意思是，很少有什么經歷為女性所特有。很多年前，像范妮·伯尼、阿芙拉·班恩、哈麗雅特·馬蒂諾、簡·奧斯汀和喬治·艾略特——這些著名女性以及更多不知名、被遺忘的女性在我之前就開辟了道路，將路鋪平，指引著我的腳步。因此，我開始寫作時，在物質上幾乎沒有阻礙。寫作是一份值得尊敬、沒有傷害的職業。家庭和諧不會因動筆留痕造成破裂。也不需要什么家庭開銷。花16便士就能買到一大堆紙，足以寫完莎士比亞的所有戲劇——如果誰有那樣的才智的話。一個作家不需要鋼琴和模特，游巴黎、維也納、柏林，當男主人、女主人。在成功從事其他職業之前，女性當作家先得以成功，當然因為可供寫作的紙便宜。

還是和你們講講我的故事吧——很簡單。你們只需去想象臥室里有個女孩，手里握著筆。她只是將筆不斷從左往右寫——從十點寫到一點。接著她想到，干脆做一件足夠簡單、足夠省錢的事——撕下那幾頁紙塞進信封，在角上貼上一分錢郵票，把它丟進街角的紅郵箱里。就這樣，我成了一個新聞記者;次月的第一天——對我來說非常光榮的一天，我的努力得到了回報——收到一位編輯的來信，里面有張一英磅十先令六便士的支票。但需明示，我多么不配稱作一個職業女性，我對這類生活的奮斗與艱辛知之甚少，我得承認，用這筆錢，我沒買食物、交房租、買鞋襪、換肉票，而是出去買了一只貓——很漂亮的一只波斯貓，很快就把我卷到了和鄰里痛苦的糾紛中。

寫寫文章，然后用稿費買幾只波斯貓，還有什么比這更簡單呢？不過稍等。寫文章得涉及點兒什么。我的文章，好像記得，是關于一位名人的小說。在寫書評時，我發現，假如要作評析，我需要與一只幽靈作斗爭。這只幽靈是個女人，開始更好地了解她后，我用名詩《家庭天使》里女主人公的名字為它命名。就是她，在我寫書評時曾在我和紙之間制造麻煩。就是她，擾亂我，浪費我的時間，折磨我，最后，我殺了她。你們這更年輕、更快樂的一代可能沒聽說過她——你們可能不知道我提“家庭天使”是什么意思。我會盡量簡短地描述她。她善解人意，魅力十足，大公無私。她擅長處理家庭生活中的難題，每天都在自我獻身。如果有雞肉，她選雞腿吃;如果屋內進風，她就坐在風口——簡而言之，她真算得上從不考慮自己，從不渴求什么，更喜歡贊成他人，總為他人著想。最重要的——都無需說——她很單純。她的單純被認為是她主要的美——她羞面紅紅，舉止優雅。當時——維多利亞女王執政后期——各家有各家的天使。我開始寫作，開頭幾句便遇上了她。她長著翅膀，陰影投在紙上;我聽到，她的裙擺在屋內沙沙作響。也就是說，我一拿起筆給那位名家的小說寫書評，她就溜到我身后，低聲耳語：“親愛的，你是個年輕女人。你在評論的是一個男人寫的小說。贊成他;要溫柔;恭維些;說謊話;采用我們女性一切的心計花招。絕不能讓任何人認為你有自己的想法。尤其要單純。”她這樣做，像在操縱我的筆。現在，我說一件多少歸功于我自己的事，當然，其實是歸功于我那些偉大的祖先，他們留給我一筆財產——大概一年五百英鎊吧——這樣我就不必僅靠女性魅力維持生計。我突襲她，扼住她的咽喉，盡全力殺了她。如果因此上了法庭，我有理由，那是在自衛;我若不殺了她，她就會殺了我。她會把我寫作的中心拔除。因為，我發現，一起筆寫作，如果沒有自己的想法，不能表達自己關于人類關系、道德、性方面的真實思想，哪怕一部小說你都評析不了。所有這些問題，按“家庭天使”的想法，女性不能自由開放地處理;她們必須利用自身魅力，必須妥協，必須——坦白講——撒謊，要想成功就得這樣。于是，無論何時我注意到她翅膀的影子，或投在紙上的閃亮光暈，便拿起墨水瓶猛地砸向她。殺死她可不容易。虛幻的本性給了她莫大的幫助。殺死一只幽靈比一個實物難多了。每當我感覺已經處決了她，她總又不知不覺地溜回來。盡管我安慰自己最后是我殺了她，但搏斗很激烈;這花了我太長時間，還不如花這些時間學習希臘語語法，或去遨游世界冒險探索。但這就是真實經歷;這段經歷當時注定降臨到每個女性作家身上。殺死“家庭天使”是女性作家職業生涯的一部分。

（譯者單位：北京語言大學）

繼續講我的職業經歷。第一次寫書評我獲得了一英鎊十先令六便士;用這筆報酬我買了只波斯貓。然后我雄心見長。我想，一只波斯貓確實不錯;但有波斯貓還不夠。我得有輛汽車。就因此，我當了一名小說家——奇怪的是，如果你給人講個故事，他們就送你一輛汽車。更奇怪的是，世上沒有比講故事更開心的了。這遠比寫名作書評要快樂。不過，若按你們秘書的意思，講講我作為小說家的職業經歷，那我必須和你們講一件發生在我身上的很奇怪的事。要理解它，你們首先要試著想象一個小說家的精神狀態。如果我說一個小說家主要的渴望就是盡可能保持無意識狀態，希望這沒有泄露職業秘密。他得促使自己始終保持一種慵懶的狀態。他希望日子過得極其平靜而規律。他希望在寫作時，如復一日、月復一月，都見同樣的面孔，讀同樣的書，做同樣的事，這樣，就沒有什么能打破他的生活幻境了——即，沒有什么能驚擾他對周圍神秘的探知和感知、情緒的強烈波動和各種匆促，以及對那個非常羞怯的虛幻精靈“想象力”的突然發現。我猜，這種狀態男女都一樣。盡管如此，我想要你們想象下我在恍惚狀態下寫一本小說。你們可以想象，一個女孩坐在那里，手中拿著筆，幾分鐘——其實是幾小時——不蘸一滴墨。一個形象突然進入我的腦海，我將這個女孩想象成一個漁民，她躺在深湖邊，沉浸于夢境中，一根釣竿懸在水面上。她放縱想象力，讓它無拘無束地掠過浸在我們潛意識深層的每塊礁石、每絲罅隙。現在，要談談我認為對女性作家而言遠比男性作家常見的體驗了。字行從女孩的指間飛速流淌。她的想象力已奔涌而出。它尋覓池塘，深入湖底，那有最多魚群蟄伏的深暗地域。然后，一下撞擊，轟然炸裂，泛起泡沫，混亂不堪。想象力猛撞到了什么硬物。女孩從夢中驚醒。誠然，她處于一種極其嚴重而艱難的困境中。直截了當地說，她已經想到一些事——關于身體、關于激情的一些事，后者對她來說，作為一個女人去談不太合適。理智告訴她，男人因此會很震驚。一名女性真實談論自己的激情，男性會如何看待——這一意識將她從藝術家的無意識狀態中驚醒。她再也寫不下去了。恍惚感無影無蹤。想象力再無作用。我相信，這對女性作家來說是很常見的經歷——她們被男性極端的常規思想所阻礙。因為，盡管男性在這些方面明顯給了自己很大的自由，但我懷疑他們是否意識到或能控制住他們在譴責女性擁有同樣的自由時所表現出的那種極端嚴厲。

這就是我自己的兩段非常真實的經歷，是我職業生涯的兩段冒險。第一段——殺死“家庭天使”——我想我完成了。她一命嗚呼。但第二段，真實講述自己身體的體驗，我想我沒完成。我懷疑任何女性都尚未完成。障礙依然力量巨大——而且難以言表。從表面看，什么比著書更簡單呢？從表面看，什么障礙只針對女性而非男性呢？從內部看，我想情況有很大差別;女性仍要和許多幽靈作斗爭，仍有許多偏見要克服。我想，一個女性能坐下來寫書而不用去斬殺幽靈、擊碎礁巖，實現這一點確實還需要很長時間。如果在文學——這個所有職業中對女性而言最自由的職業——中尚且如此，那么你們首次加入的一些新職業，會是什么樣呢？

這些問題，如果我有時間，是想要問你們的。誠然，我之所以強調自己的職業經歷，是因為我想你們的職業經歷也會如此，只是形式不同罷了。即使名義上道路是開放的——沒有什么妨礙一名女性當醫生、律師、公務員——但我認為，前路會有許多幽靈和障礙若隱若現。探討和認清這些，我認為十分重要，頗有價值;只有這樣，艱辛才能共擔，困難才能解決。但除此之外，還有必要探討下我們為之奮斗的目標，即我們為什么與這些艱巨難平的障礙作斗爭。對那些目標不能想當然，須對它們不斷提出質疑，加以檢驗。在我看來，這整個情況興味非凡、意義重大——在這個大廳，身邊圍繞著參與實踐的女性，有史以來第一次我不知她們選擇了多少種不同的職業。你們在以前男性專有的房子中贏得了自己的居室。你們能支付房租，不過需要付出巨大的辛勞和努力。你們每年能掙500英鎊。但這種自由只是開始;你們擁有了自己的房間，但里面仍空空如也。房間得布置，得裝飾，得分享。你們打算怎么布置、怎么裝飾？你們打算和誰分享，需要什么條件？我想，這些是最重要也最關乎利害的問題。有史以來第一次你們能問這些問題;第一次你們能自行決定該如何回答。我很愿意留下來跟你們探討這些問題和答案——但今晚不行了。時間到了，我必須打住了。

（譯者單位：北京語言大學外國語學部）