女性的職業（下）

弗吉尼婭·伍爾夫

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 befell1 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 lethargy2. 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 cranny3 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， looming4 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 formidable5 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.

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。就這樣，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。這遠比為名作寫書評要快樂。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，日復一日、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——這樣就沒有什么能驚擾他對那個非常羞怯的虛幻精靈“想象力”的神秘探知和感觸，遭遇其沖擊和碰撞，猛然感知其存在。我猜，這種狀態男女作家都一樣。盡管如此，我想要你們想象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。我在想象這個女孩時，一個釣魚者形象進入我的腦海，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?，F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，那兒有最大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——她們被男性極端的傳統思想所阻礙。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，真實描述自己身體的體驗，我想我沒完成。我懷疑任何女性都尚未完成。其障礙依然巨大——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，身邊圍繞著很多女性，有史以來第一次我不知她們從事著多少種不同的職業。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）