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 novelist’s state of mind. I hope I am not giving away professional secrets if I say that a novelist’s 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 girl’s 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 artist’s 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. 　　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。就这样，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。这远比为名作写书评要快乐。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，日复一日、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——这样就没有什么能惊扰他对那个非常羞怯的虚幻精灵“想象力”的神秘探知和感触，遭遇其冲击和碰撞，猛然感知其存在。我猜，这种状态男女作家都一样。尽管如此，我想要你们想象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。我在想象这个女孩时，一个钓鱼者形象进入我的脑海，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，那儿有最大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——她们被男性极端的传统思想所阻碍。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，真实描述自己身体的体验，我想我没完成。我怀疑任何女性都尚未完成。其障碍依然巨大——而且难以言表。从表面看，什么比著书更简单呢？从表面看，什么障碍只針对女性而非男性呢？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，身边围绕着很多女性，有史以来第一次我不知她们从事着多少种不同的职业。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）