女性的职业（上）

弗吉尼娅·伍尔夫

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.

贵团体秘书请我来时告诉我，你们在关注女性就业问题。她建议我可以和你们聊聊我自己的职业经历。我确实是一名女性，我也确实有工作;但我的职业经历怎样呢？很难说。我从事文学创作;在该职业中，经历不像在其他职业中那么多，戏剧创作除外——我的意思是，很少有什么经历为女性所特有。很多年前，像范妮·伯尼、阿芙拉·班恩、哈丽雅特·马蒂诺、简·奥斯汀和乔治·艾略特——这些著名女性以及更多不知名、被遗忘的女性在我之前就开辟了道路，将路铺平，指引着我的脚步。因此，我开始写作时，在物质上几乎没有阻碍。写作是一份值得尊敬、没有伤害的职业。家庭和谐不会因动笔留痕造成破裂。也不需要什么家庭开销。花16便士就能买到一大堆纸，足以写完莎士比亚的所有戏剧——如果谁有那样的才智的话。一个作家不需要钢琴和模特，游巴黎、维也纳、柏林，当男主人、女主人。在成功从事其他职业之前，女性当作家先得以成功，当然因为可供写作的纸便宜。

还是和你们讲讲我的故事吧——很简单。你们只需去想象卧室里有个女孩，手里握着笔。她只是将笔不断从左往右写——从十点写到一点。接着她想到，干脆做一件足够简单、足够省钱的事——撕下那几页纸塞进信封，在角上贴上一分钱邮票，把它丢进街角的红邮箱里。就这样，我成了一个新闻记者;次月的第一天——对我来说非常光荣的一天，我的努力得到了回报——收到一位编辑的来信，里面有张一英磅十先令六便士的支票。但需明示，我多么不配称作一个职业女性，我对这类生活的奋斗与艰辛知之甚少，我得承认，用这笔钱，我没买食物、交房租、买鞋袜、换肉票，而是出去买了一只猫——很漂亮的一只波斯猫，很快就把我卷到了和邻里痛苦的纠纷中。

写写文章，然后用稿费买几只波斯猫，还有什么比这更简单呢？不过稍等。写文章得涉及点儿什么。我的文章，好像记得，是关于一位名人的小说。在写书评时，我发现，假如要作评析，我需要与一只幽灵作斗争。这只幽灵是个女人，开始更好地了解她后，我用名诗《家庭天使》里女主人公的名字为它命名。就是她，在我写书评时曾在我和纸之间制造麻烦。就是她，扰乱我，浪费我的时间，折磨我，最后，我杀了她。你们这更年轻、更快乐的一代可能没听说过她——你们可能不知道我提“家庭天使”是什么意思。我会尽量简短地描述她。她善解人意，魅力十足，大公无私。她擅长处理家庭生活中的难题，每天都在自我献身。如果有鸡肉，她选鸡腿吃;如果屋内进风，她就坐在风口——简而言之，她真算得上从不考虑自己，从不渴求什么，更喜欢赞成他人，总为他人着想。最重要的——都无需说——她很单纯。她的单纯被认为是她主要的美——她羞面红红，举止优雅。当时——维多利亚女王执政后期——各家有各家的天使。我开始写作，开头几句便遇上了她。她长着翅膀，阴影投在纸上;我听到，她的裙摆在屋内沙沙作响。也就是说，我一拿起笔给那位名家的小说写书评，她就溜到我身后，低声耳语：“亲爱的，你是个年轻女人。你在评论的是一个男人写的小说。赞成他;要温柔;恭维些;说谎话;采用我们女性一切的心计花招。绝不能让任何人认为你有自己的想法。尤其要单纯。”她這样做，像在操纵我的笔。现在，我说一件多少归功于我自己的事，当然，其实是归功于我那些伟大的祖先，他们留给我一笔财产——大概一年五百英镑吧——这样我就不必仅靠女性魅力维持生计。我突袭她，扼住她的咽喉，尽全力杀了她。如果因此上了法庭，我有理由，那是在自卫;我若不杀了她，她就会杀了我。她会把我写作的中心拔除。因为，我发现，一起笔写作，如果没有自己的想法，不能表达自己关于人类关系、道德、性方面的真实思想，哪怕一部小说你都评析不了。所有这些问题，按“家庭天使”的想法，女性不能自由开放地处理;她们必须利用自身魅力，必须妥协，必须——坦白讲——撒谎，要想成功就得这样。于是，无论何时我注意到她翅膀的影子，或投在纸上的闪亮光晕，便拿起墨水瓶猛地砸向她。杀死她可不容易。虚幻的本性给了她莫大的帮助。杀死一只幽灵比一个实物难多了。每当我感觉已经处决了她，她总又不知不觉地溜回来。尽管我安慰自己最后是我杀了她，但搏斗很激烈;这花了我太长时间，还不如花这些时间学习希腊语语法，或去遨游世界冒险探索。但这就是真实经历;这段经历当时注定降临到每个女性作家身上。杀死“家庭天使”是女性作家职业生涯的一部分。

（译者单位：北京语言大学）

继续讲我的职业经历。第一次写书评我获得了一英镑十先令六便士;用这笔报酬我买了只波斯猫。然后我雄心见长。我想，一只波斯猫确实不错;但有波斯猫还不够。我得有辆汽车。就因此，我当了一名小说家——奇怪的是，如果你给人讲个故事，他们就送你一辆汽车。更奇怪的是，世上没有比讲故事更开心的了。这远比写名作书评要快乐。不过，若按你们秘书的意思，讲讲我作为小说家的职业经历，那我必须和你们讲一件发生在我身上的很奇怪的事。要理解它，你们首先要试着想象一个小说家的精神状态。如果我说一个小说家主要的渴望就是尽可能保持无意识状态，希望这没有泄露职业秘密。他得促使自己始终保持一种慵懒的状态。他希望日子过得极其平静而规律。他希望在写作时，如复一日、月复一月，都见同样的面孔，读同样的书，做同样的事，这样，就没有什么能打破他的生活幻境了——即，没有什么能惊扰他对周围神秘的探知和感知、情绪的强烈波动和各种匆促，以及对那个非常羞怯的虚幻精灵“想象力”的突然发现。我猜，这种状态男女都一样。尽管如此，我想要你们想象下我在恍惚状态下写一本小说。你们可以想象，一个女孩坐在那里，手中拿着笔，几分钟——其实是几小时——不蘸一滴墨。一个形象突然进入我的脑海，我将这个女孩想象成一个渔民，她躺在深湖边，沉浸于梦境中，一根钓竿悬在水面上。她放纵想象力，让它无拘无束地掠过浸在我们潜意识深层的每块礁石、每丝罅隙。现在，要谈谈我认为对女性作家而言远比男性作家常见的体验了。字行从女孩的指间飞速流淌。她的想象力已奔涌而出。它寻觅池塘，深入湖底，那有最多鱼群蛰伏的深暗地域。然后，一下撞击，轰然炸裂，泛起泡沫，混乱不堪。想象力猛撞到了什么硬物。女孩从梦中惊醒。诚然，她处于一种极其严重而艰难的困境中。直截了当地说，她已经想到一些事——关于身体、关于激情的一些事，后者对她来说，作为一个女人去谈不太合适。理智告诉她，男人因此会很震惊。一名女性真实谈论自己的激情，男性会如何看待——这一意识将她从艺术家的无意识状态中惊醒。她再也写不下去了。恍惚感无影无踪。想象力再无作用。我相信，这对女性作家来说是很常见的经历——她们被男性极端的常规思想所阻碍。因为，尽管男性在这些方面明显给了自己很大的自由，但我怀疑他们是否意识到或能控制住他们在谴责女性拥有同样的自由时所表现出的那种极端严厉。

这就是我自己的两段非常真实的经历，是我职业生涯的两段冒险。第一段——杀死“家庭天使”——我想我完成了。她一命呜呼。但第二段，真实讲述自己身体的体验，我想我没完成。我怀疑任何女性都尚未完成。障碍依然力量巨大——而且难以言表。从表面看，什么比著书更简单呢？从表面看，什么障碍只针对女性而非男性呢？从内部看，我想情况有很大差别;女性仍要和许多幽灵作斗争，仍有许多偏见要克服。我想，一个女性能坐下来写书而不用去斩杀幽灵、击碎礁岩，实现这一点确实还需要很长时间。如果在文学——这个所有职业中对女性而言最自由的职业——中尚且如此，那么你们首次加入的一些新职业，会是什么样呢？

这些问题，如果我有时间，是想要问你们的。诚然，我之所以强调自己的职业经历，是因为我想你们的职业经历也会如此，只是形式不同罢了。即使名义上道路是开放的——没有什么妨碍一名女性当医生、律师、公务员——但我认为，前路会有许多幽灵和障碍若隐若现。探讨和认清这些，我认为十分重要，颇有价值;只有这样，艰辛才能共担，困难才能解决。但除此之外，还有必要探讨下我们为之奋斗的目标，即我们为什么与这些艰巨难平的障碍作斗争。对那些目标不能想当然，须对它们不断提出质疑，加以检验。在我看来，这整个情况兴味非凡、意义重大——在这个大厅，身边围绕着参与实践的女性，有史以来第一次我不知她们选择了多少种不同的职业。你们在以前男性专有的房子中赢得了自己的居室。你们能支付房租，不过需要付出巨大的辛劳和努力。你们每年能挣500英镑。但这种自由只是开始;你们拥有了自己的房间，但里面仍空空如也。房间得布置，得装饰，得分享。你们打算怎么布置、怎么装饰？你们打算和谁分享，需要什么条件？我想，这些是最重要也最关乎利害的问题。有史以来第一次你们能问这些问题;第一次你们能自行决定该如何回答。我很愿意留下来跟你们探讨这些问题和答案——但今晚不行了。时间到了，我必须打住了。

（译者单位：北京语言大学外国语学部）