CHAPTER ONE（1）

第一章

But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction—what, has that got to do with a room of one's own? I will try to explain. When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a river and began to wonder what the words meant. They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontes and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs Gaskell and one would have done. But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like, or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them, or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion. I should never be able to fulfil what is, I understand, the first duty of a lecturer to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece for ever. All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions—women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems. But in order to make some amends I am going to do what I can to show you how I arrived at this opinion about the room and the money. I am going to develop in your presence as fully and freely as I can the train of thought which led me to think this. Perhaps if I lay bare the ideas, the prejudices, that lie behind this statement you will find that they have some bearing upon women and some upon fiction. At any rate, when a subject is highly controversial—and any question about sex is that—one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold. One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker. Fiction here is likely to contain more truth than fact. Therefore I propose, making use of all the liberties and licences of a novelist, to tell you the story of the two days that preceded my coming here—how, bowed down by the weight of the subject which you have laid upon my shoulders, I pondered it, and made it work in and out of my daily life. I need not say that what I am about to describe has no existence; Oxbridge is an invention; so is Fernham; 'I' is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being. Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them; it is for you to seek out this truth and to decide whether any part of it is worth keeping. If not, you will of course throw the whole of it into the waste—paper basket and forget all about it.

但是，你们也许会说，我们要求你讲的是女人和小说——这和一个自己的房间有什么关系呢？我会全力说明的。当初你们要求我讲女人和小说的时候，我就坐在河岸边，开始想这几个字的含义。也许它们只是意味着关于范尼? 伯尼的几句评论，再加上几句对简? 奥斯汀的评论，对勃朗特姐妹的赞扬，以及对白雪覆盖下的霍沃思牧师公寓的概述；如果有可能，再说一些关于米特福德小姐的俏皮话，恭敬地提一提乔治? 艾略特，然后论及加斯克尔夫人，这样就算完事了。但是再看一看，这几个字的含义似乎并不那么简单。 “女人和小说” 这个题目也许是指女人和她们的样子，这也可能也是你们想要传递的意思，它也许是指女人和她们所写的小说，也许是指女人和关于她们的小说，或者是指这三个意思不知怎的就难解难分地混在了一起，而你们想要我从这个角度来考虑它们。但是当我用最后这种看上去最为有趣的方式开始思考这个主题时，我马上发现，它有一个致命的缺点。我永远也得不出一个结论。我永远也不能在一个小时的演讲之后，给你们一个有价值的纯粹的真理，让你们把它包在笔记本的页张之间，永远保留在壁炉架上，而我知道，这是一个演讲者的第一责任。我所能做的就是，就一个小问题给你们一个观点——一个女人要写小说，她必须有钱，有一个她自己的房间；你们会看到，这就使得女人真正的性格以及小说真正的性质这个大问题得不到解决。我逃避了责任，没有对这两个问题下一个结论，我认为，女人和小说仍是悬而未决的问题。但是为了做一些补偿，我将做我所能做的，给你们解释我这个关于房间和钱的观点是怎么形成的。我将在你们面前，把导致我产生这个想法的思路尽可能充分而自由地展开来。如果我将这一观点背后的想法和偏见也表达出来，你们也许会发现，它们与女人有些关系，与小说也有些关系。无论如何，当一个题目颇具争议时——所有关于性别的问题都是如此——人们也就不指望说出真理了。他只能解释自己所持的那个观点是如何形成的。他只能给听众一个机会，让他们在观察演讲者的局限、偏见、癖好的时候，得出他们自己的结论。在这里，小说包含的真理可能多于事实。因此，我打算，利用一个小说家所有的特权和自由，告诉你们我到这儿来的前两天发生的事情——被你们放在我肩上的题目给压倒后，我如何思考这个题目，如何把它用在我日常生活的里里外外。我不需要说，我将要描述的东西并不存在， “牛津剑桥” 是捏造的， “弗恩汉姆” 也是， “我” 也只是为了方便而给某个并不真实存在的人起的名称。谎话将从我的嘴里流淌出来，但可能也有一些真理掺杂其中；要让你们去寻找这真理，并且决定哪些部分是值得保留的。如果不这样做，你们当然会把它整个扔到废纸篓里，然后忘得一干二净。

Here then was I (call me Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by any name you please—it is not a matter of any importance) sitting on the banks of a river a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in thought. That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought—to call it by a prouder name than it deserved—had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until—you know the little tug—the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the course of what I am going to say.

那么这就是我（可以叫我玛丽? 贝顿，玛丽? 西顿，玛丽? 卡迈克尔，或者任何你喜欢的名字——这完全不重要），一两个星期前，在十月晴朗的天气里，我坐在河岸边，陷入了沉思。我所说的那个衣领，也就是女人和小说，以及对一个引起各种偏见和强烈情感的题目下结论的需要，把我的头压到了地上。我的左边和右边都长着某种灌木，是金黄色和深红色的，那火一般的颜色明亮夺目，甚至就像是炉火在燃烧。远处的河岸边，垂杨带着永久的悲哀，它们的头发披在肩上。河水倒映着它从天空、桥梁和燃烧的树木中挑选出来的各种东西，一个大学生划着船穿过了这些倒影，但它们很快就又完整地合上了，好像那个大学生从未来过一样。一个人可以在那坐上一昼夜，沉浸在思考中。思考——这是给它的一个它不太配的光荣的名字——已经把它的钓线垂到河里去了。一分钟又一分钟，钓线在倒影和水草之间四处摆动，随着水流漂起沉下，直到——你知道那轻轻地一拉——一个想法忽然聚到了钓线的末端，然后小心地把它拉进来，再把它仔细地摊开。唉，我这摊在草地上的思想看起来多么渺小，多么无足轻重啊，就好像那种被高明的渔夫放回水中的小鱼，好让它长得肥点，有一天值得拿来煮着吃。我现在不拿那个思想来烦你们，虽然你们仔细观察的话，可能会在我说话的过程中发现它。

But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind—put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted and sank, and flashed hither and thither, set up such a wash and tumult of ideas that it was impossible to sit still. It was thus that I found myself walking with extreme rapidity across a grass plot. Instantly a man's figure rose to intercept me. Nor did I at first understand that the gesticulations of a curious—looking object, in a cut—away coat and evening shirt, were aimed at me. His face expressed horror and indignation. Instinct rather than reason came to my help, he was a Beadle; I was a woman. This was the turf; there was the path. Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel is the place for me. Such thoughts were the work of a moment. As I regained the path the arms of the Beadle sank, his face assumed its usual repose, and though turf is better walking than gravel, no very great harm was done. The only charge I could bring against the Fellows and Scholars of whatever the college might happen to be was that in protection of their turf, which has been rolled for 300years in succession they had sent my little fish into hiding.

但是无论多么渺小，它依然有它那种神秘的性质——把它放到脑子里，它就立刻变得非常令人兴奋，变得很重要；它猛冲下沉、四处闪现的时候，激起了汹涌的水流和巨大的波动，以至于我不可能再静静地坐着。于是，我急速地穿过一片草地。一个男人的身影立刻出现了。他过来阻拦我。起初我还不明白，这个人看上去很奇怪，穿着常礼服以及晚上穿的衬衫，原来他所做的手势是针对我的。他的脸上写着恐惧和愤怒。是本能而不是理智帮了我的忙；他是教区执事，而我是个女人。这是草皮，小路在那边。这里只允许研究员和学者来，砾石路才是给我的地方。这些想法都是一瞬间产生的。我重回到小路上，教区执事的手臂就放下了，他的脸上恢复了通常的平静；尽管草皮比砾石路走着舒服，但我也没造成什么很大的伤害。不管是什么学院的研究员和学者，我能够针对他们提出的唯一控诉就是，这块草皮被连续压了300年，他们在保护它的时候，把我的小鱼吓得藏了起来。

What idea it had been that had sent me so audaciously trespassing I could not now remember. The spirit of peace descended like a cloud from heaven, for if the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning. Strolling through those colleges past those ancient halls the roughness of the present seemed smoothed away; the body seemed contained in a miraculous glass cabinet through which no sound could penetrate, and the mind, freed from any contact with facts (unless one trespassed on the turf again), was at liberty to settle down upon whatever meditation was in harmony with the moment. As chance would have it, some stray memory of some old essay about revisiting Oxbridge in the long vacation brought Charles Lamb to mind—Saint Charles, said Thackeray, putting a letter of Lamb's to his forehead. Indeed, among all the dead (I give you my thoughts as they came to me), Lamb is one of the most congenial; one to whom one would have liked to say, Tell me then how you wrote your essays? For his essays are superior even to Max Beerbohm's, I thought, with all their perfection, because of that wild flash of imagination, that lightning crack of genius in the middle of them which leaves them flawed and imperfect, but starred with poetry. Lamb then came to Oxbridge perhaps a hundred years ago. Certainly he wrote an essay—the name escapes me—about the manuscript of one of Milton's poems which he saw here. It was LYCIDAS perhaps, and Lamb wrote how it shocked him to think it possible that any word in LYCIDAS could have been different from what it is. To think of Milton changing the words in that poem seemed to him a sort of sacrilege. This led me to remember what I could of LYCIDAS and to amuse myself with guessing which word it could have been that Milton had altered, and why. It then occurred to me that the very manuscript itself which Lamb had looked at was only a few hundred yards away, so that one could follow Lamb's footsteps across the quadrangle to that famous library where the treasure is kept. Moreover, I recollected, as I put this plan into execution, it is in this famous library that the manuscript of Thackeray's ESMOND is also preserved. The critics often say that ESMOND is Thackeray's most perfect novel. But the affectation of the style, with its imitation of the eighteenth century, hampers one, so far as I can remember; unless indeed the eighteenth—century style was natural to Thackeray—a fact that one might prove by looking at the manuscript and seeing whether the alterations were for the benefit of the style or of the sense. But then one would have to decide what is style and what is meaning, a question which—but here I was actually at the door which leads into the library itself. I must have opened it, for instantly there issued, like a guardian angel barring the way with a flutter of black gown instead of white wings, a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman, who regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.

是什么想法让我大胆地闯入了草地，我现在已经记不得了。安谧的精神就像云一样从天上降下来，如果说安谧的精神存在于某一个地方的话，那它就是在十月的一个晴朗的早晨，存在于牛津剑桥的庭院和四方形场地里。漫步穿过那些学院，经过那些古老的大厅，当前的不愉快似乎消失了，身体好像被装在一个不可思议的小玻璃房间里，任何声音都不能传进去。同时脑子因为没有接触任何事实（除非再次闯到草地上去），可以自由地沉浸在与这个时刻相协调的各种冥想中。有一篇老文章是讲在漫长的假期重访牛津剑桥，我对这篇文章有零星的记忆，这些记忆碰巧让我想起了查尔斯? 拉姆——萨克雷把一封拉姆的信放在他的前额上时说，圣徒查尔斯。确实，在所有死去的文人中（我有了什么想法，就会告诉你们），拉姆是最亲切的之一，人们会想对他说，那么告诉我，你怎么写散文？我认为，他的散文甚至比马克斯? 比尔博姆的还要好——尽管后者的散文很完美，这是因为想象力的疯狂闪现，因为文章中天才的像闪电一样的噼啪声，这虽然使他的文章有了缺点，并不完美，但也使它们闪耀着诗意。大约在一百年前拉姆来过牛津剑桥，当然他写了一篇散文——题目我忘了，是关于他在这儿看见的弥尔顿的一首诗的手稿。大概是《利西达斯》，拉姆写道，想到《利西达斯》中的任何一个字都可以被其他的字所取代，他震惊不已。想到弥尔顿改了那首诗里的字，这在他看来似乎是一种渎圣行为。这使我想起我所能记得的《利西达斯》的一部分，并猜测着哪些字弥尔顿可能改过以及他为什么改，以此自娱；接着我想到，拉姆所看的那个手稿离这儿不过几百码，人们可以追随拉姆的脚步，穿过四方院，来到那个著名的图书馆，那件珍宝就保存在那儿。而且，当我向图书馆走的时候，我记起，这个著名的图书馆里也保存着萨克雷的《埃斯蒙德》的手稿。批评家常说，《埃斯蒙德》是萨克雷最完美的小说。但是根据我的记忆，那矫揉造作的文体，以及它对18世纪的模仿，都是束缚人的；除非18世纪的文体对萨克雷而言确实是自然的——这个事实通过看手稿便可以证明，从手稿上可以看出那些修改是为了文体还是为了意思。但是这样，人们就必须决定什么是文体，什么是意思，这个问题——但这时我其实已经到了通往图书馆的大门的门口。我一定是开了门的，因为立刻就有一位表示反对、满头银发的和蔼绅士走了出来，就像守护天使一样挡住了路，不过挥的是黑袍子而不是白翅膀；他一面挥手叫我后退，一面用低声表示遗憾，说女士得由一位本学院的研究员陪着或是带着介绍信才准进这个图书馆。

That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference to a famous library. Venerable and calm, with all its treasures safe locked within its breast, it sleeps complacently and will, so far as I am concerned, so sleep for ever. Never will I wake those echoes, never will I ask for that hospitality again, I vowed as I descended the steps in anger. Still an hour remained before luncheon, and what was one to do? Stroll on the meadows? sit by the river? Certainly it was a lovely autumn morning; the leaves were fluttering red to the ground; there was no great hardship in doing either. But the sound of music reached my ear. Some service or celebration was going forward. The organ complained magnificently as I passed the chapel door. Even the sorrow of Christianity sounded in that serene air more like the recollection of sorrow than sorrow itself; even the groanings of the ancient organ seemed lapped in peace. I had no wish to enter had I the right, and this time the verger might have stopped me, demanding perhaps my baptismal certificate, or a letter of introduction from the Dean. But the outside of these magnificent buildings is often as beautiful as the inside. Moreover, it was amusing enough to watch the congregation assembling, coming in and going out again, busying themselves at the door of the chapel like bees at the mouth of a hive. Many were in cap and gown; some had tufts of fur on their shoulders; others were wheeled in bath—chairs; others, though not past middle age, seemed creased and crushed into shapes so singular that one was reminded of those giant crabs and crayfish who heave with difficulty across the sand of an aquarium. As I leant against the wall the University indeed seemed a sanctuary in which are preserved rare types which would soon be obsolete if left to fight for existence on the pavement of the Strand. Old stories of old deans and old dons came back to mind, but before I had summoned up courage to whistle—it used to be said that at the sound of a whistle old Professor instantly broke into a gallop—the venerable congregation had gone inside. The outside of the chapel remained. As you know, its high domes and pinnacles can be seen, like a sailing—ship always voyaging never arriving, lit up at night and visible for miles, far away across the hills. Once, presumably, this quadrangle with its smooth lawns, its massive buildings and the chapel itself was marsh too, where the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Teams of horses and oxen, I thought, must have hauled the stone in wagons from far countries, and then with infinite labour the grey blocks in whose shade I was now standing were poised in order one on top of another, and then the painters brought their glass for the window, and the masons were busy for centuries up on that roof with putty and cement, spade and trowel. Every Saturday somebody must have poured gold and silver out of a leathern purse into their ancient fists, for they had their beer and skittles presumably of an evening. An unending stream of gold and silver, I thought, must have flowed into this court perpetually to keep the stones coming and the masons working; to level, to ditch, to dig and to drain. But it was then the age of faith, and money was poured liberally to set these stones on a deep foundation, and when the stones were raised, still more money was poured in from the coffers of kings and queens and great nobles to ensure that hymns should be sung here and scholars taught. Lands were granted; tithes were paid. And when the age of faith was over and the age of reason had come, still the same flow of gold and silver went on; fellowships were founded; lectureships endowed; only the gold and silver flowed now, not from the coffers of the king, but from the chests of merchants and manufacturers, from the purses of men who had made, say, a fortune from industry, and returned, in their wills, a bounteous share of it to endow more chairs, more lectureships, more fellowships in the university where they had learnt their craft.

一个著名的图书馆被一个女人诅咒过，这对这个著名的图书馆来说，完全是一件不必在乎的事情。它神圣庄严，心平气和，所有珍品都安全地锁在它的胸中；它沾沾自喜地沉睡着，而且我认为，它会永远这样睡下去。我带着满腔怒火走下台阶的时候，我发誓再也不会激起那些回声，再也不去要求它的热情款待。吃午餐之前还有一个小时，该做些什么呢？在草地上散步？在河边坐着？当然，那是一个可爱的秋天的早上，树叶闪着红色飘落到地上；这两件事做起来都不是什么太苦的事。但是音乐声传入耳朵里。某种仪式或庆典正在进行。我走过小礼拜堂的门前时，风琴正在用美妙的乐声诉着苦。在那种晴朗的天气里，甚至连基督教的悲哀听上去都像悲哀的回想，而不是悲哀本身；连古老风琴的呻吟都好像被平静所包住了。假使我有权进去，我也不希望进去；这次，教堂司事也许会拦住我，大概会要求我交出洗礼证明书，或是教务长的介绍信。不过，这些宏伟建筑的外观常常和其内部一样美丽。而且，看着会众们聚集起来，进去又出来，就已经够有趣的了；他们在礼拜堂的门口忙碌着，就像蜜蜂在蜂房的入口处一样。许多人都戴着方帽子，穿着长袍。有的人肩上戴着一簇簇毛皮；有的人坐在轮椅里被人推着；还有的人，尽管还没过中年，却似乎已经皱成了很奇怪的样子，让人想起了水族馆里巨大的螃蟹和龙虾，它们费了很大劲笨拙地穿过沙子。当我斜靠着墙的时候，这所大学实在像一个避难所，里面有很多稀奇古怪的人；如果把这些人放到斯特兰大街的人行道上，让他们去谋生的话，他们很快就会被淘汰。一些老教务长和老学监的以前的故事又回到了我的脑海中，但是，在我鼓足勇气吹口哨之前——过去据说有一位老教授，一听到口哨声，立刻拔腿就跑——那些值得敬重的会众已经进去了。礼拜堂的外面还是照旧。你知道，它那高高的圆顶和尖塔夜里被点亮后，在几英里之外、群山的那一边都能看到，就像一直在航行永不靠岸的帆船一样。据推测，这个四方院，包括它平整的草坪、厚实的建筑以及礼拜堂本身，曾经也是一片沼泽地，当时青草在风中摇摆，猪在拱土觅食。我想，一队队的牛马一定是从很远的地方用四轮车把石头拉来，然后很多很多的劳力把这些灰色的石块整整齐齐地堆起来，一块叠着一块，我现在就站在这些灰色石头的阴影里。然后，油漆工给窗户装上玻璃，泥瓦匠在房顶上忙了几个世纪，带着油灰、水泥、铲子和泥刀。每一个星期六，都一定有人从皮制的钱袋里倒出一些金子和银子，倒到这些老工匠的手中，因为他们晚上大概要喝啤酒，玩撞柱游戏。我想，一定有源源不断的金银不断地流进这个院子，使得石头不断被运进来，也使得泥瓦匠不停地工作——整平、开沟、挖掘、排水。但是，当时是一个信仰的时代，大量的钱被倒进来，以便把这些石头立在很深的地基上。房子建起来后，皇帝、皇后和显赫的贵族们又从他们的钱柜里拿出了更多的钱，确保这儿唱着圣歌，教着学生。土地有人赏赐；十一税也有人缴纳。但信仰的时代过去，理智的时代到来的时候，仍然有同样多的金银流进来；于是，设立了奖学金，捐赠了讲师基金。只不过，金银现在不是从皇室的钱柜中流出来的了，而是从商人和制造商的钱箱里流出来的，是从那些比如说靠工业发了财的人的钱包里流出来的，在遗嘱中，他们将很大一部分财富回馈给大学，捐给他们，让他们聘请更多的教授和讲师，设立更多的奖学金。当时，他们就是在这些大学里学到了手艺。

Hence the libraries and laboratories; the observatories; the splendid equipment of costly and delicate instruments which now stands on glass shelves, where centuries ago the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Certainly, as I strolled round the court, the foundation of gold and silver seemed deep enough; the pavement laid solidly over the wild grasses. Men with trays on their heads went busily from staircase to staircase. Gaudy blossoms flowered in window—boxes. The strains of the gramophone blared out from the rooms within. It was impossible not to reflect—the reflection whatever it may have been was cut short. The clock struck. It was time to find one's way to luncheon.