Chapter 8 a room of one's own

But, you might say, we invite you to talk about women and fiction—what does that have to do with a room of one's own?I'll try to explain clearly.When you came to invite me to talk about women and novels, I sat on the bank of the river and began to wonder in my heart: what do these words mean.They probably refer to a little comment on Fanny Burney; a little detail on Jane Austen; a little compliment on the Bronte sisters, and a little description of the snow-covered Vicarage of Haworth; if possible , a few witty remarks to Miss Mitford; great respect to George Eliot; and a mention to Mrs. Gaskell; and so complete the merit.But at a second glance, these words don't seem so simple.By the topic of women and fiction, perhaps you originally meant women and what they were like, or women and the novels they wrote, or women and novels about women, or for some reason all three intertwined, and you're asking me to think about them from an integrated point of view.However, when I began to think about the subject from that last synthetic point of view, which seemed the most interesting approach, I soon discovered that it had a fatal flaw.That is I will never be able to draw conclusions.I shall never be able to fulfill what I have in mind as a speaker's first duty--to give you, after an hour's lecture, a nugget of pure truth to wrap between the pages of your notebooks and keep forever on your mantelpiece.All I can do is to give you a little advice on a minor point—if a woman is going to write a novel, she must have money and a room of her own; The great question of the true nature of women and the true nature of fiction I have left unanswered.I have shirked the responsibility to draw conclusions on these two questions—women and the novel, as far as I am concerned, remain unanswered questions.But in order to make some amends, I will do my best to disclose to you how I came to this insight about rooms and money.I shall present before you as fully and freely as I can the train of thought which led me to this idea.If I let out all the thoughts and prejudices behind these statements, perhaps you will find that they have something to do with women, and they have something to do with fiction.In any case, when a topic is highly controversial—as is anything to do with gender—there is no hope for people to have their say.He can only explain how he came to a certain view that he did hold.He can only give his audience an opportunity to draw their own conclusions from observing the limitations, prejudices, and idiosyncrasies of the speaker.Here, fiction seems to contain more truth than fact.So I propose, let me use all the freedom and privilege of a novelist, to tell you the story of the two days before I came here - how I was bent under the weight of the subject you put on my shoulders Waist, I think about it and make it work in and out of my daily life.I need not say that the situation I am about to describe does not exist; Oxbridge is a fiction; so is Fernham; "I" is only a convenient term for some fictional character.Lies will flow from my lips, yet perhaps some truth will be mingled with it; it is your business to find out the truth, and decide whether any part is worth keeping.If not, of course you'll throw it all in the wastebasket and forget about it all.

So here I was (call me Mary Beton, or Mary Seton, or Mary Carmichael, or whatever you like—it doesn't matter) sitting by the bank, a week or two ago, It was a sunny day in October, and I was intoxicated with contemplation.What I have just said about women and fiction requires a conclusion to a subject which arouses all kinds of prejudices and passions, like a stiff collar on my neck, which weighs me down.To my left and right grew bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, bright as fire in the hot sun.On the distant river bank, those willows with long hair draped their shoulders and bowed their heads weeping.The water reflected the scenes it had picked out of the sky, the bridges, and the flaming trees, and after a college student paddled through the reflections in a boat, they were completely closed again, as if he had never sailed past this place. place.One can sit there for an entire hour and meditate.Contemplation—to give it a nobler title it does not deserve—has dropped its thread into the river.The thread of thought wobbled, and minute after minute passed, it swayed like a fishing line among reflections and algae in the river, bobbing and sinking with the waves, until—you know I just pulled it lightly—suddenly An idea coalesces at the end of a thread of thought; I carefully pull it up and spread it on the ground.oops!How small, how insignificant, that idea of ​​mine seemed once spread out on the grass; it was like one of those little fish that a good fisherman puts back in the water to fatten up a little so that some day Worth cooking.Now I will not bother you with that idea, but if you look carefully you will perhaps discover it yourself in the subject I am about to speak of.

And yet, however small it may be, it still has its mystical quality--once you put it in your mind, it becomes exciting and important; There is such a strong shock and commotion of the mind that it is impossible to sit still.Because of this, I found myself walking across a lawn at such a rapid pace.Immediately, a man's figure stood up and blocked me.At first I didn't understand that the gesture of that strange-looking guy in a tuxedo shirt and frock coat was directed at me.The look on his face was both horror and indignation.Instinct, not reason, helped me realize: he was a warden; I was a woman.Here's a lawn; there's a path.Only fellows and scholars are allowed to walk the lawn; the gravel path is where I should be.These thoughts are split-second judgments.When I returned to the path, the rector dropped his arms, which had been raised in warning, and his countenance returned to his usual serenity, though the lawn was more comfortable than the gravel path, Didn't do much damage.The only indictment I can bring against the fellows and scholars of whatever college it is is that, in order to protect their lawn, which has been rolled by the mower for three hundred years, they took my line of thought The little fish with a point of view hid in fright.

As to what point of view it was that fascinated me to venture upon this lawn, I do not now remember.If this peaceful spirit, descending like a cloud from the sky, lingers anywhere, it is on the grounds and grounds of Oxbridge University on a bright October morning.Wandering through those colleges, past those ancient halls, the rough reality of the present seemed worn away; the body seemed to be shrouded in a marvelous glass chamber, into which no sound could penetrate, and the mind had been detached from any fact ( (unless trespassing on the lawn again), indulge at will in reveries that are in harmony with the situation at hand.Purely by chance, I stumbled upon a well-worn essay describing a revisit of Oxbridge during a long holiday, and thought of the essayist Charles Lamb—Thackeray held up a letter from Lamb Pressed on the forehead and said: St. Charles!In fact, of all the dead men of letters (and I tell you what I thought at the time), Lamb was one of the most congenial; you would be tempted to say to him: Tell me, then, how you write your prose of?His prose is even better than Max Beerbohm's, which I think is perfect and flawless, and in Lamb's prose blazing with passionate imagination, where the thunderbolt of genius makes his The prose is not perfect, but the poetry contained in it is like stars shining between the lines.About a hundred years ago, Lamb came to Oxbridge.He did write an essay--the title I forget--on a manuscript of a poem of Milton's which he saw here.Perhaps it was Lycidas, Lamb writes in prose, how surprised he was to think that a single word in the usual version of Lycidas should be different from the original.It seemed sacrilegious to Milton to think of changing the words in his poem.This brings me to as far as I can recall some of the verses of Lycidas, and amuses myself with guesswork: which word was replaced by Milton, and why.It occurred to me that the original manuscript that Lamb had seen was only a few hundred yards away, and that I could follow in Lamb's footsteps across the quadrangle of the college to the famous library where that rare copy was kept.Nay, when I put this plan into action, I remembered that it was in this famous library that the manuscript of Thackeray's Esmond was kept.Critics often say that "Esmond" is Thackeray's most perfect novel.But that mannerism, its imitation of the eighteenth-century style, was, as far as I recall, a fetter; unless the eighteenth-century style was indeed natural to Thackeray--a matter of seeing The fact can be proved by the manuscript, just look at whether his revisions are for the style of the style, or for the perfection of meaning.Then it is a matter of deciding what is style and what is meaning—but I have actually arrived at the door of the library.I must have opened the door, for immediately a dissenting, silver-haired, kindly elder appeared, blocking the way like a guardian angel, but with black sleeves flapping in the wind instead of white wings, waving me Backing away, I apologized in a low voice: a lady must be accompanied by a researcher of the academy, or have a letter of introduction before being allowed to enter the museum.

Even if it was once cursed by a woman, the famous library is completely indifferent to it.Majestic, with all the rare books safely locked in its breast, it sleeps contentedly, and to me it will sleep forever.Never again will I wake the echoes in the gallery, never ask for a reception again, I swore that as I descended the steps in a rage.How to pass the time with an hour until lunch?Walking on the lawn?Sitting by the river?It was indeed a lovely autumn morning, with the red leaves falling to the ground, and it was easy to walk or sit.However, a burst of music floated to my ears.Someone is having some kind of religious ceremony or celebration.When I passed the door of the chapel, the loud organ sounded like weeping.In this still air, Christian music sounded more like memories of sorrow than sorrow itself; even the whine of the organ was surrounded by peace and tranquility.Even if I had the right, I wouldn't want to go in, and this time the rector might stop me, maybe ask me to show my baptismal certificate, maybe a letter of introduction from the provost.However, the exterior of these magnificent buildings is often as beautiful as the interior.And it was interesting to watch the gathering of the faithful in the church, hurrying in and out of the church door like a swarm of bees at the door of a beehive.Many wear square hats and academic gowns; some have fur collars draped over their shoulders; others are in wheelchairs; Huge crabs and crawfish struggling to crawl across the sand table in the pavilion.As I watched from the sidelines, the University was indeed a sort of sanctuary for eccentric characters who, if left to struggle for their existence on the Strand pavement, would soon be weeded out.I am reminded of many old anecdotes of old proctors and old tutors, that old Professor So-and-so ran off at the whistle—but before I could muster up the courage to whistle, the venerable crowd had gone into church.The exterior of the chapel was left undisturbed.Its high domes and spires, you know, are lighted at night, like a great ship that is always sailing and never comes in, and can be seen from miles away over the hills.Perhaps the college's quadrangle, with its level lawns, its stately buildings, and the chapel itself, had once been a marsh where the weeds were blown by the wind and the pigs dug and scraped.There must be a team of cattle and horses, I think, pulling the whole truckload of large stones from a distant county, and then using infinite labor to stack these gray stones neatly. I am standing on the edge of this stone wall now. In the shadows, then the painters put the glass on the windows, and the bricklayers worked on the roof for hundreds of years with cement, putty, shovel, and scraper.Every Saturday, someone must pour gold and silver coins from a leather purse into the hands of the old craftsmen, because they may drink beer and play skittles all evening.There must have been a constant flow of gold and silver, I thought, flowing into this courtyard at all times to maintain a constant supply of stones, to keep the artisans at work: leveling, trenching, digging, drainage.However, it was an age of pious faith, and money was generously donated to lay a deep foundation for these stones; Poured into the treasury, to ensure that hymns are sung and students are educated here.Some donate land and others pay taxes.When the Age of Faith passed and the Age of Reason came, the influx of gold and silver continued; scholarships were instituted, lecture funds endowed; but now the gold and silver came not from the coffers of kings, but from the cash-boxes of merchants and manufacturers, from those who depended on industry The wallets of the wealthy, in their wills, generously donate a large portion of their estates to the alma mater where they learned their craft, to establish more professorships, lecture funds, and scholarships.So there are libraries and laboratories, there are astronomical weather stations, there are expensive and luxurious equipment and all kinds of precision instruments now placed in glass cabinets, and hundreds of years ago here the weeds fluctuated with the wind and the wild boars arched the earth. Food.Indeed, as I wandered about the grounds, the foundations of gold and silver seemed deep enough, and the paths over the weeds strong.Menservants with trays on their heads hurried up and down the stairs.Gorgeous flowers are in full bloom in the flower box in front of the window.The music of the gramophone came from the back room.In this atmosphere, it is almost impossible not to think about it—whatever you were thinking about, it was suddenly interrupted anyway.The bell rang.Time to find a way to lunch.

Here's the curious fact: novelists have always convinced us that if a luncheon is memorable it must be because of someone who quips or behaves well during the meal.But they seldom spend a pen or ink describing the food they eat.It is one of the novelist's conventions to never touch upon good soup, salmon, or duck, as if it did not matter at all, as if no one ever smoked a cigarette or drank a glass of wine at the table.I shall, however, venture here to defy convention and tell you that this lunch began with a few soles in a deep basin, on which the college chef poured the whitest cream, but garnished here and there. It is spotted with brown spots, like the belly spots of a doe.The next dish is partridge, but if you think that this is just two shaved brown birds lying on a plate, you are wrong.Those partridges are numerous and of different varieties, and they are all paired with various sauces and cold dishes, which are spicy, sour and sweet, in order; the matching potato slices are as thin as coins, but not so hard; the balls in the side dishes Brussels sprouts are shaped like rosebuds, but more succulent.No sooner had the roast partridge and its garnish been finished than the silent footman, perhaps the rector himself, appeared in a milder gesture, and immediately brought the dessert, wrapped in a napkin, to the table before us. , like a pile of white sugar gushing from a wave.To call it a pudding and therefore to associate it with rice and starch is to discredit it.At the same time, the glass is filled with yellow and red wine, which is drained and refilled.Then a warm current ran down the spine, till the midpoint of the spine, where is the seat of the soul, gradually kindles the inner fire, which is not the bluntness of that little electric lamp called brilliance that goes in and out of our lips The radiance, the deeper, sharper, more subtle brilliance kindled by the thick yellow flame of rational communication.There is no rush.No flash required.It is not necessary to be anyone else but yourself.We are all going to leave this world and go to heaven, and join Van Dyke - in other words, when a person lights a good cigarette and leans against the deep cushions of the window seat, life seems so good, and life is so rewarding The sweetness, how trivial the grudges are, how amazing the like-minded friendships and interactions are.

If I had been lucky enough to have an ashtray handy, and had it not been for the want of the dish which required me to flick the ashes out of the window, and had things been slightly different from reality, I probably would not have seen a cat without a tail.When the bob-tailed cat walked quietly through the quadrangle of the college, this sudden sight accidentally touched my subconscious intelligence and changed the brilliance of my emotions.It was as if someone had suddenly lowered a blackout hood.Perhaps that glass of fine wine has overwhelmed me.Indeed, as I watched the Manx cat perched in the middle of the lawn as if it were asking the universe a question, it seemed to me that something was missing, something had changed.Yet, listening to others talk, I asked myself: What is missing, what has changed?To answer that question, I have to imagine putting myself out of this room, back in time, indeed before the war, and presenting a different model luncheon not far from here room; but that was a different luncheon.Every thing is different.At the same time, the conversation among the guests was in full swing. There were many guests, young in age, both men and women;As the conversation continues, I put the old luncheon conversation as background, and when I compare the two conversations side by side, I am convinced that this conversation is the direct descendant and the rightful successor of the previous conversation. .Nothing has changed, everything is the same, except for one thing—I am listening now, not to the words that are being said, but to the undertones and inner undercurrents that lie behind them.That's right, that's it - the change is here.Before the Great War, at luncheons like this, people would say exactly the same thing, but it would sound very different, because in olden days the talk was accompanied by a chant, not clear, but beautiful, Thrilling, it changes the value of the words themselves.Can this singing tone be transformed into words?Perhaps with the help of poets it can be done.I happened to have a book by my side, and as I opened it, I stumbled upon Tennyson's poems.I found Tennyson chanting here:

. Is this the psalm women sang at pre-war luncheons? The thought of someone humming these lines under their breath at the pre-war luncheon was ridiculous, so I burst out laughing and had to point to the Manx cat as an excuse for laughing, and it did look kind of funny, poor Brutal, tailless, in the middle of the lawn.Was it really born with a bobtail, or did he lose it in an accident?This tailless cat, although it is said to live on the Isle of Man, is surprisingly rare.This is a strange animal, oddly shaped and unattractive.It's odd how much difference it makes with tails or no tails--you know, it's just something people say when they're up at the end of a luncheon looking for their hats and hats.

The luncheon, thanks to the hospitality of the host, lasted until late in the afternoon.The sun was fading on a beautiful October day and the leaves were falling as I made my way across the boulevard.Door after door closed softly and sharply behind me.Many a parishioner put many a key in the slippery lock; and kept the treasury safe for another night.Crossed the boulevard and came to a road - I forgot the name of the road - if you turn right you can follow the road until you reach Fernham.Yet there is still plenty of time.Dinner is not until half past seven.Had such a big lunch it was almost possible to skip dinner.It is strange that a little piece of poetry should work in your mind and make your legs follow the road to its rhythm.Those verses—

Singing in my veins as I trot down the road towards Headingley Beach.Then, seeing the waves of the sea being held back by the dam, I chanted in a different tune: What a great poet, I suddenly shouted loudly, just like people can't help cheering at dusk: what a great poet! With a feeling of envy for our own time, I thought, foolish and absurd as it was to compare the present with the past, and then I wondered whether it would be possible to honestly name two contemporary poets , their greatness can be compared with that of Tennyson and Christina Rossetti.This is obviously impossible, and as I look at the foaming waters, I think, They are not comparable.What makes that kind of poetry so ecstatic, so ecstatic, is that it celebrates a certain emotion that one has experienced (perhaps experienced at a pre-war luncheon), so we are A response is easily and lovingly elicited without bothering to examine that feeling, or compare it to existing feelings.But the emotions expressed by contemporary poets are created and extracted from us in the present moment.It is not recognized at once; it is often, for some reason, feared; it is watched keenly, and compared with suspicion to the familiar old feelings.Thus arises the difficulty of modern poetry; it is precisely because of this difficulty that it is impossible for anyone to remember more than two lines of any good modern poetry.For this reason - and I can't remember - my argument was dulled by lack of data.But why, I continued as I walked towards Headingley Beach, why don't we whisper poetry at luncheons anymore?why alfred no longer sings

no longer respond Can we blame it on World War I?Did men and women read the expressions on each other's faces so clearly when the cannons roared in August 1914 that they knew that romantic love had been killed?It is indeed shocking to see the faces of our rulers amidst the flash of gunfire (especially for women, who still have a lot of illusions about things like education).They look so ugly - German, British, French rulers - so stupid.But whatever is attributable, and whoever is attributable, is much rarer now than it was then, to inspire Tennyson and Christina Rossetti to sing so ardently about the coming of their lovers.People now only need to read, observe, listen, and recall.But why use the word "blame"?If that is an illusion, why not praise the disaster?Whatever the catastrophe it is, it destroys illusion and replaces reality.For truth...the ellipsis signifies that I was looking for truth there and forgot that I should turn here to Fernham.Really, what is reality and what is fantasy?I asked myself.For example, what are the real faces of these houses?In the twilight they were hazy, and the red windows were gay; but at nine o'clock in the morning, the candy and shoelaces dropped by schoolchildren made the red look vulgar and dirty.And the willows, and the river, and the garden stretching down to the river, now dim in the twilight, but gold and scarlet in the sun--which was real and which was illusion?Nor do I need to tell you all the twists and turns of my train of thought, for on my way to Headingley Beach I did not find any conclusions, and I ask you to imagine that I soon realized that I had forgotten the turn and was walking back again , changed direction and walked towards Fernham. Because, as I have just said, this is a day in October, I dare not change the seasons casually, and describe the lilacs hanging from the garden wall, and the crocuses, tulips, and other spring flowers, so that you will not be impressed by me. Loss of respect, and damage to the reputation of the novel.Fiction must be strictly factual, and the more factual the better the fiction--we're told.So it's still fall, the leaves are still yellow and continue to fall, if anything, just a little faster than before because it's dusk (7:23 to be exact) and the scrape There was a slight breeze (southwest to be precise).Still, there's a certain oddity factor at play: Perhaps the verse of Christina Rossetti is partly responsible for my stupid fantasy - of course it is only a fantasy - I imagine lilacs swaying on the wall, yellow butterflies fluttering around, pollen in the air drift.A gust of wind, blowing from nowhere, lifted up the young leaves of the branches, so a piece of silver gray shone in the air.This is the time when the daylight and the light are alternately connected, and the various colors gradually darken under the afterglow of the setting sun. The beauty of the world revealed, but soon to be gone (and now I push open the gate into the garden, because, unwisely, the door is left open and unlocked, and there seems to be no parishioner nearby), the beauty of the world, which is soon to be gone, is double One edge is laughter, and the other edge is pain, cutting the heart in two.In the spring twilight, Fernham Gardens lay before me, barren and empty, among the long weeds strewn with daffodils and hyacinths, swaying carelessly and at the best of times chaotic. Preface, now being swelled by the wind, pulling even the roots.The windows of this building are arc-shaped between the wavy red bricks, like the round windows of the cabin, and the spring clouds are passing quickly, and the windows turn from lemon yellow to silvery white.Someone sleeping in a hammock, someone trotting across the grass, in this half-light they were mere phantoms, half seeing, half guessing—wouldn't anyone want to hold her back?Then there appeared on the balcony a hunched figure, as if suddenly out for air, looking at the garden, not to be underestimated but modest, with a broad forehead and old clothes—this might be the scholar, it might be J— —H—is she herself?All was dim and hazy, and yet very strong, as if the veil of dusk over the garden had been split in two by the flash of a star or of a sword—a flash of terrible reality, in its own way, from the heart of spring. jump out.Because of youth—— My soup is served.Supper was served in the great dining-room.It is far from spring now, but an evening in October.Everyone gathered in the big dining room.Dinner is ready.Here is soup.It is bouillon.There is nothing in the soup that inspires fantasy.If there are any patterns on the bottom of the plate, people can see clearly through the clear and transparent soup.But there is no pattern on the plate.The soup plate had no pattern on it.The next dish that came up was beef with a side of potatoes and greens—a home-cooked "holy trinity" reminiscent of beef rump sold in a muddy market, with cabbage sprouts curling and yellowing at the leaves, People bargaining and haggling, and women carrying mesh bags to the vegetable market on a Monday morning.There is no reason to be dissatisfied with the daily food of man, since the market is plentiful and the coal miner's table is undoubtedly a little less.The next dish was dried plums and custard.If anyone complains, even with the custard to temper it, prunes are unsatisfactory, not a bountiful vegetable (not really fruit at all), as dry and stringy as a miser's heart, oozing juice It is as thin as the blood flowing in the veins of misers. Those misers are reluctant to drink good wine for eighty years and wear warm clothes for eighty years, but they are also reluctant to give alms to the poor. If anyone wants to complain, he should If you think about it carefully, some people even cling to dried plums and refuse to give them generously.Biscuits and cheese came next, and the jugs were passed around carelessly, for the nature of biscuits was dry, and these biscuits were downright dry.The dishes are all served.Dinner is over.Everyone pulls the chairs away from behind, and there's a rattling noise; everyone pushes the door out of the dining room, so the swing door swings violently back and forth; Definitely ready for breakfast the next day.The young students from England walked along the corridor, climbed the stairs, sang as they walked, and closed the doors with bangs and bangs.As a guest, a stranger (for I have no more rights at Fernham than I have at Trinity, or at Samville, Girton, Newnham, Christchurch, etc.) , may I say, "That's not for dinner," or (now that we, Mary Seton and I, are in her living room), "Why couldn't we just dine here alone?" Because if I say In this case, I was already spying and investigating the economic privacy inside this school building. In the eyes of strangers, the appearance of this college is so beautiful, full of joy and courage.No, you can't say that.Indeed, the interest of the conversation waned for a moment.The structure of the human being is such that the heart, the body, the mind are all mixed together, and a million years from now they will no doubt be housed in separate containers, but this is not the case now, so a good dinner is essential to the conversation. The effect is extremely important.If a person does not eat well, he cannot think well, love well, and sleep well.That lamp of feeling and thinking in the spine cannot be lit with beef and prunes.We might all go to heaven when we die, and hope that Van Dyke will meet us at the next bend in the road—that's the vaguely aloof mood that beef and prunes brew at the end of a hard day's work.Luckily my friend, who teaches natural science, has a cupboard with a squat decanter and some shot glasses--(but should have some sole and partridge for the bottom first)-- So we can sit near the fire and make up for the loss of life during the day.After a minute or two we were rambling at will on those curious and amusing topics which have been formed in your mind in the absence of a particular person and which you will naturally talk about when you are reunited with that person— —One is married, another is not; one thinks this way, another thinks that; one acquires all kinds of knowledge and improves a lot, another goes down astonishingly—starts with this argument The corollary of his ramblings is to make us speculate and contemplate the nature of human beings and the peculiarities of the strange world in which we live.Yet, while we are talking about these things, I am ashamed to realize that a tendency arises automatically and leads everything to its own conclusion.One may be talking about Spain or Portugal, about books or horse racing, but whatever is being talked about, the real interest is not in that at all, but in this picture: about five hundred years ago, many bricklayers were working on the roof of a tall building. to work.Kings and nobles brought bag after bag of gold and silver and dumped it on the ground.This picture, which always comes alive in my mind, juxtaposes itself with another picture of scrawny cows, muddy markets, withered vegetables, the withered, tendony heart of an old miser—this Two separate and grotesque images always appeared in my mind at the same time and dueled with each other, so that I could not help but be completely at the mercy of them.除非任凭整个谈话被那股趋势误导扭曲，最好的办法还是把我心中的想法暴露出来，如果凑巧的话，它一接触到空气就会枯萎碎裂，就像当年人们打开埋在温莎的棺材，那古代国王的头颅一接触空气就化为一堆粉末。于是，简单扼要地，我把心里的想法告诉塞顿小姐，这么多年以来，砖瓦匠们一直在学院教堂屋顶上添砖铺瓦，国王、王后和贵族们把一袋袋金银放在肩膀上扛进来，把它们一铲又一铲埋进土中；然后我们自己时代的金融巨子们来了，他们放下支票和债券之处，我想，就是前辈们堆放金砖银块的地方。所有这一切，都埋藏在那些学院下面，我说；但是这所学院，我们正坐着谈话的地方，在它富丽堂皇的红砖墙下面，在花园里荒芜凌乱的草丛下面，又埋藏着什么呢？在那朴实无华的瓷器餐具，以及（我来不及刹车就脱口而出）那牛肉、蛋奶冻和梅子干后面，又隐藏着一股什么力量呢？ 嗯，玛丽·塞顿说，大约在一八六〇年——啊，但是你知道那个故事，她说，有点厌烦，我猜测，是重复叙述此事令她厌倦。于是她告诉我——办女子学院要租房屋。开了筹备会议。信封开好了。通知书拟好了。一次次会议举行了；来信被宣读了；某某人承诺慷慨解囊；恰恰相反，某某先生——一个铜板也不给。《星期六评论》出言不逊。我们如何才能筹款租办公室？我们可以举办一次义卖会吗？可否找位漂亮姑娘坐在前排？让我们参考一下约翰·斯图亚特·穆勒对这个问题的见解。是否有人能够说服某某日报主编刊登一封呼吁书？能否请某某夫人在呼吁书上签个名？但是某某夫人不在城里。大约六十年前，就是用这种方法来办这件事的，费了九牛二虎之力，还花了许多时间。经过长期奋斗，历尽艰辛，她们才筹募到三万英镑。因此我们显然不能饮美酒吃鹧鸪，也雇不起头上顶着托盘来上菜的仆役，她说。我们不可能拥有沙发椅和个人独用的房间。“至于舒适的生活设施，”她引用某本书上的话说，“只好等到以后再说。” 想到那些妇女们一年又一年地苦干，却发觉自己难以积攒到二千英镑，她们想尽一切办法才募集到三万英镑，我们对于女性不可宽恕的贫穷突然爆发出一阵轻蔑的嘲笑。那么，我们的母亲大人们这些年来都在干些什么，以至于没有给我们留下任何财产？往她们鼻子尖儿上擦粉？注视着商店橱窗里的商品？在蒙特卡洛的阳光下花枝招展地炫耀？在壁炉架上有几张照片。玛丽的母亲——如果那是她的照片——有可能是个浪费时间的女人（她居然和一位牧师生了十三个孩子），然而如果真是如此，那么她的快乐奢靡生活并未在她脸上留下多少欢乐的痕迹。她是一位朴实的家庭妇女；一位披着格子花呢围巾的老太太，那条围巾用一只刻花大别针扣住；她坐在一把藤圈椅里，鼓励一只西班牙小猎犬向照相机看，带着有趣而又紧张的表情，她肯定一按快门那条小狗就一定要动。如果当年她去做生意；成为人造丝制造商或证券交易所的大款；如果她给费恩汉姆女子学院留下二三十万英镑，那么今晚我们就可以在这儿舒舒服服坐着，而我们所谈的话题，就可能是考古学、植物学、人类学、物理学、原子的本质、数学、天文学、相对论、地理学。只要塞顿夫人和她的母亲以及她母亲的母亲能够像她的父辈和祖辈一样，学会那赚钱的伟大艺术并且留下她们的钱财，去建立女性专用的研究基金、讲座基金、各种奖金和奖学金，那么我们就有可能在这儿像模像样地享用一只家禽和一瓶美酒；我们也就有可能不算过分自信地指望，在慷慨捐赠奖学金所获得的职业庇护之下，度过快乐而又体面的一生。我们就有可能一直在探索或者在写作；在这个地球上令人肃然起敬的地方消磨时光；坐在雅典帕台农神殿的台阶上沉思冥想；或者上午十点钟上办公室去，下午四点半舒舒服服回家写一首小诗。只不过，如果塞顿夫人和她的同类人物都在十五岁就经商赚钱，那就根本不会有玛丽这个人——这就是我这番议论中的破绽。我问玛丽，对此有何高见？从窗帘之间望出去，是十月的夜晚，静谧而可爱，在枯黄的树枝之间可以瞥见一两颗星星。她是否打算牺牲她理应享受的那一份秋夜美景，牺牲她与兄弟姊妹们在苏格兰游戏争闹的甜蜜回忆（他们有一个幸福家庭，尽管是个大家庭），那儿空气新鲜糕饼质优令她赞不绝口，她是否打算牺牲这一切，但凭钢笔一划，就让费恩汉姆女子学院获得五万英镑赠款？因为，要给大学捐款就有必要压低整个家庭的开支。既要发大财，又要生十三个孩子——没有人能够受得了。考虑一下这些事实吧，我们说。婴儿出生之前首先要在娘胎里耽上九个多月。然后婴儿诞生了。然后花三四个月时间给婴儿哺乳。在哺乳期之后，肯定还得花五年时间陪孩子玩。你们似乎不能让孩子们在街上乱跑。有人曾经在俄国看到孩子们撒野乱跑，便说这不是令人愉快的景象。人们还说，人性是在一岁到五岁之间定型的。我说，如果塞顿夫人一直在赚钱，你们对童年的游戏和纷争还会有什么样的回忆？对于苏格兰的新鲜空气、优质糕饼和其他一切优点，你们还会知道些什么？但是，提出这些问题毫无用处，因为你们根本就未曾存在过。不仅如此，提出下述问题也同样毫无用处，那就是：假设塞顿夫人和她的母亲以及母亲的母亲赚了大钱，并且把它投入学校和图书馆的基金，可能会有什么结果？首先，经商赚钱对她们来说是不可能的；其次，即使她们有可能赚钱，当时的法律也拒绝让她们拥有自己所赚钱财的权利。只是最近四十八年以来，塞顿夫人方始有权拥有属于她本人的一个便士。在此之前几百年里，这都是她丈夫的财产——或许正是这种观念，使塞顿夫人和她的母辈们被拒之于证券交易所大门之外。我们所赚到的每一个便士，她们或许会说，将会从我手中被取走，并且按照我丈夫的想法去投资——或许是在巴利奥尔学院或国王学院设置一项奖学金或研究员基金，因此即使我能赚钱，我对此也无多大兴趣。我最好还是把此事留给我丈夫去干吧。 无论如何，不管是否应该归咎于照片上那位看着西班牙小猎犬的老太太，毫无疑问，我们的母亲们由于某种原因，把她们的事情办得糟透了。结果没有一个便士可以用在“舒适的生活设施上”，用在鹧鸪和美酒、管事员和草坪、图书和雪茄烟、图书馆和悠闲的生活上。用干巴巴的土块垒起光秃秃的泥墙，便是她们所能作出的最大贡献。 于是我们就这样站在窗边漫谈，并且向外眺望，就像成千上万人们那样每晚眺望夜景，俯视着我们下方那座著名城市的圆屋顶和塔楼。在秋月辉映之下，它非常美丽、非常神秘。古老的石块显得洁白而庄严。使人想到在下面收藏着的所有书籍；想到镶了壁板的房间里挂着的老年主教和显贵人士画像；想到那些涂漆彩窗会把球形或新月状的奇特灯影投射在人行道上；想到各种各样匾额、纪念碑、墓志铭；想到喷水池和大草坪；想到面对着学院里四方院落的许多安静的房间。而且（恕我冒昧），我也想到了那令人羡慕的名烟、美酒、太师椅和可爱的地毯；想到温文尔雅、和蔼可亲、高贵仪表，它们是富裕、独处、悠闲生活的产物。当然，我们的母亲们并未向我们提供可以与这一切相媲美的任何东西——我们的母亲们发现要筹集三万英镑极其困难，我们的母亲们为圣安德鲁斯教堂的牧师们各自生了十三个孩子。 于是我回到我的小旅馆去，在穿越那些黑暗的街道之时，我想想这个又想想那个，一个人干完整天工作之后，往往会陷入这种沉思。我认真思索，为什么玛丽·塞顿没有财产遗留给我们；贫穷对心灵有什么影响；财富对心灵又有什么影响；我想起了早晨曾经见到过的怪诞老绅士们，他们肩膀上都披着毛皮领饰；我又想起了只要有人吹口哨，其中一位就会奔跑；我也想起了小教堂里奏风琴的轰鸣声和图书馆里关门的乒乓响；于是我想，被人锁在门外是多么令人不快；而且我想，被人锁在里面或许更加糟糕；我更想到男性的安全富裕和女性的贫困不安，想到传统和缺乏传统对作家心灵的影响；最后我想，现在是时候了，应该把这一天皱缩的外皮和其中的争论、印象、愤怒、欢笑统统卷起来，扔到篱笆里面去。成千上万颗星星在辽阔的蓝天中闪耀。个人似乎孤独地与一个莫测高深的社会相处。所有的人都睡着了——俯卧着，平躺着，默然无语。没人在牛桥的街道上走动。甚至连我触摸弹簧推开旅馆大门的手也看不见——连旅馆里擦皮鞋的仆人也没有一个在熬夜等候，替我掌灯送我回屋安寝，时间实在太晚了。 如果可以的话，我请求你们跟随着我换一个场景。树叶仍在飘落，然而现在是伦敦，不是在牛桥；而且我必须请你们去想象这么一间房间，和成千上万别的房间一样，有一扇窗，越过街上人们的帽顶、货车、汽车，与其他窗子遥遥相望，在房内桌上有张白纸，上面写着《妇女与小说》几个大字，别无他物。在牛桥用了午餐和晚餐，其必然后果，很不幸，就是要去参观大英博物馆。一个人必须把所有这些印象中的个人偶然因素过滤掉，才能获得提纯的液体，真理的精萃。因为那次牛桥之行和午餐、晚餐，引起了一大堆问题。为何男人饮酒女人喝水？为何男性如此富裕女性如此贫困？贫困对小说有何影响？创作艺术品有何必要条件——立刻有成千个问题涌上心头。然而人家需要的是答案而不是问题；获得答案的唯一办法，是请教博学多才而毫无偏见的人，他们已经超脱于口舌之争和肉体困扰，将其研究推论的结果，发表在你们可以在大英博物馆中找到的著作里。我拿起一本笔记簿和一支铅笔，问我自己：如果在大英博物馆书架上都找不到真理，真理又在何处？ 有了如此的准备，又是如此自信而求索不已，我出发去寻求真理。那天虽然不算潮湿，却颇阴暗，大英博物馆四周街道上，往地窖里装煤的门户全都洞开，一袋袋煤炭正在往内倾倒；四轮马车在街边停下，把一些用粗绳扎住的箱子卸到人行道上，箱里大概装着瑞士或意大利移民家庭的全部服装，准备冬天在布卢姆斯伯里地区的公寓里寻求谋生之道、藏身之所，或者其他合适的日常用品。嗓音总是嘶哑的男人，推着装满花木的手推车，穿街走巷一路叫卖。有人在喊，有人在唱。伦敦像一个工场。伦敦像一架机器。我们就像织布梭子，在这空白的底板上穿梭往来，织出一些花样。大英博物馆是这个工厂的另外一个部门。推开几道活络弹簧门，就站在博物馆庞大的圆形穹顶下，一个人就好像是这庞大的秃顶前额中的一个思想，这前额上围绕着一条写满著名学者姓名的华丽的带子。走到柜台前，拿起一张纸，打开一卷目录，于是……这儿的五个逗点，代表着互不连贯的五分钟茫然、惊异和困惑。你们是否知道，在一年之中，人们写了多少本关于妇女的书？你们是否知道，其中有多少本书是男人写的？你们是否意识到，你们妇女或许是宇宙中被讨论得最多的动物？我带着一本笔记簿和一支铅笔前来，准备阅读一个上午，以为到上午结束时，我可以把获得的真理记入笔记本中。但是为了完完全全应付此事，我想，我必须成为一群大象和一窝蜘蛛才行，我实在无法可想，才提出这两种据说分别是寿命最长和眼睛最多的动物作比喻。我甚至需要具备钢爪铜喙，方可穿皮透壳。我怎能找到埋藏在这一大堆纸张中的真理微粒呢？我一边自问，一边在绝望之中开始用目光在长长的书目中上下求索。甚至那些书名，也给我提供了思考的素材。性别及其本质，自然会引起医生和生物学家们的注意；但是，令人惊讶和难解的事实是，性别——换言之即妇女——居然也吸引了其他人士的注意，其中包括受人欢迎的散文家，妙笔生花的小说家，获得硕士学位的年轻人，没有学位的男子汉，还有除了不是女人之外别无明显特长的男人们。这儿有些书，从表面上看来，插科打诨、浅薄轻浮；然而另一方面，有许多书是严肃而有预见性，讲道德而有规劝性。只要看看这些书名，就会想起无数教师和牧师登上讲台或布道坛，滔滔不绝口若悬河，总是超过平常规定讲解这个题目的一个小时。这是一个极为奇异的现象，而且这种现象显然——这儿我检索到字母M一栏——仅仅局限于男性。女人并不去写关于男人的书——对此我不得不带着宽慰的心情加以欢迎，因为如果我必须首先读完男人写女人的书，再去读完女人写男人的书，那就要等那原来百年开花一次的铁树花开两度，然后我才能动笔写作。于是我随心所欲地挑选了大约十二本书，把写好书号的小纸条放在铁丝盘里，在我的座位上等候馆员去取书，四周是真理精萃的其他寻求者们。 究竟是什么原因，形成了这奇特的差别？我一边在心里猜测，一边在英国纳税人所提供的那些本来别有用途的小纸条上画着车轮。为什么女人——据此书目来判断——在男人心目中要比男人在女人心目中更加有趣得多？这似乎是一个非常奇特的事实，于是我就在心里想象那些花时间撰写有关妇女书籍的男作家的生活；究竟他们是老头还是青年，是已婚还是未婚，是红鼻子还是驼背——无论如何，想到自己成为别人关注的对象，总有点儿飘飘然，只要那关注我的人不是老弱残废就得了——我就这样沉浸于遐想之中，直到一大堆书雪崩似地滑倒在我面前的书桌上，我那轻浮的思路才被打断。现在麻烦开始了。在牛桥受过研究工作训练的大学生，毫无疑问掌握了某种牧羊方法，会带着他的问题，穿过分散注意力的众多歧途而直奔答案，就像把羊赶进羊栏。例如，坐在我身旁的那位大学生，正在孜孜不倦地抄录一本科学手册中的内容，我感到肯定，每过十来分钟，他就能从知识的矿砂里提炼出纯净的金块。在他咽喉部屡次发出表示满意的轻微咕哝声，就足以证明他炼金有术。但是，如果一个人很不幸没在大学里受过训练，他所寻求的问题远远不是被牧人赶到羊圈里去，而是像被一整队猎犬所追逐的惊恐羊群，惊慌失措地东奔西跑四处逃窜。教授们、教师们、社会学家们、牧师们、小说家们、散文家们、记者们，以及除了不是女人之外别无其他资格的男子汉们，把我那个简单的问题——女人为何贫困——不断地追逐，直到它变成了五十个问题，直到那五十个问题疯狂地跳进河中，随波逐流漂走了。我的笔记本里每一页都密密麻麻涂满了字迹潦草的笔记。为了表明我当时的心境，我愿意念一点笔记给你们听听，附带说明一下，那页笔记的标题很简单，是《妇女与小说》几个大字；但是接下来的内容却是像这样的提纲： 之妇女观 之妇女观 之妇女观 先生之妇女观 写到这儿我深深吸了一口气，真的，并且在这一页边上加上一句：为何萨缪尔·巴特勒要说，“聪明男子从来不说他们对女人有何想法”？很明显，聪明男子事实上除了女人从来不谈别的。但是，我仰靠在椅子里，瞅着那个好似大脑的圆形穹顶，我不过是其中的一个思想而已，然而这思想现在有些窘困，我继续往下推论，非常不幸之处在于，聪明男子对于妇女从未有过相同的看法。这儿是蒲伯的观点： 大多数女人完全没有个性。 这儿是拉·布吕耶的高见： 女人爱走极端；不比男人更好，就比男人更坏—— 这两位相同时代的敏锐观察家，意见截然相反。妇女能不能接受教育？拿破仑认为她们不能。约翰逊博士的意见恰恰相反。她们究竟有没有灵魂？有些野蛮人说她们没有。其他人持相反观点，坚持认为女人有一半是神，并且因此而崇拜她们。有些圣贤认为，她们头脑比较浅薄；其他人认为，她们意识更加深沉。诗人歌德（Goethe）尊敬她们；纳粹领袖墨索里尼（Mussolini）蔑视她们。不论往何处看，男人们总是在思考着女人，并且想法各不相同。简直不可能把这一切理出一点头绪，我可以断定，同时我又怀着妒意瞥了一眼隔壁那位读者，他正在笔记本上做最最整洁的摘录，每个条目都用A、B或C字母开头，而我自己的笔记本上涂满了最最混乱的、字迹潦草而相互矛盾的摘要。这是令人烦恼、令人困惑、令人屈辱的。真理从我手指缝里溜走了。一点一滴都没有留下。 我不可能就此回家，我想，作为“妇女与小说”研究的一种严肃认真的贡献，我不能仅仅加上一句，说什么女人躯体上的汗毛少于男人，或者南海群岛少女青春期开始于九岁——还是九十九岁？——由于心烦意乱，甚至连我的字迹也太过潦草而难以辨认了。工作了整整一个上午，却显示不出更有分量、更令人尊敬的成绩，那简直是丢尽脸面。如果我不能把握住有关过去时代妇女的真理（为了简便起见我就用Women一词的首字母W来称呼她们），又何必为W的将来去操心呢？尽管妇女问题专家人数众多学问渊博，去向这些先生们请教，似乎纯粹是浪费时间，他们居然还自命为研究妇女及其在政治、儿童、工资、道德等各方面影响的专家。还不如根本不要去翻开他们的著作。 在我默然沉思之际，无精打采，感到绝望，不知不觉地画了一幅图画，我本该像我的邻座读者那样，在画图之处写出一个结论。我画出了一张脸，一个躯体。这是冯×教授的脸和躯体，他正忙于撰写他那部里程碑式的巨著，书名是《女性智力、道德与体力之低劣》。在我的画像中，他不是一位对于女性有魅力的男子。他躯体笨重，下颌宽阔，为了与下颌相平衡，他的眼睛细小，脸色通红。他的表情显示，他正在心情激动地辛苦工作，这使他把手中的笔往纸上戳，好像他在写作之时正在戳死某种害虫，然而即使把它杀死，他仍不满意；他必须继续不断地去杀死它；而且即使如此，使他愤怒激动的原因依然存在。瞧着我那张画，我问道，是否他的太太使他不满？她是否爱上了一位骑兵军官？那位军官是否身材修长、举止文雅、身穿羔羊皮外套？采用弗洛伊德潜意识心理学理论，他是否婴儿时期在摇篮里就遭到一位漂亮姑娘嘲笑？因为甚至在摇篮里，我想，这位教授也不会是一个可爱的婴儿。不论是什么原因，在我的速写漫画中，这位教授看上去怒气冲天、丑陋不堪，正在写着那本关于妇女智力、道德、体力如何低劣的皇皇巨著。画图是结束整个上午徒劳无益工作的一种无聊方法。然而正是在无聊之中，在我们的梦幻之中，那淹没在深水中的真理，有时会偶尔浮出水面。瞅着我的笔记本，一种非常基本的心理学训练（还配不上称为心理分析）向我显示，那位怒发冲冠教授的漫画，是我在愤怒之中画出来的。当我沉浸于梦想之中，愤怒情绪乘机攫取了我手中的铅笔。但是，愤怒正在那儿干些什么呢？有趣、烦乱、愉悦、厌倦——所有这些情绪，在这个上午相继涌上心头，我能够测出它们的踪迹，说出它们的名称。愤怒，这条黑蛇，是否曾经潜伏在这些情绪之中？是的，那幅漫画可以作证，它曾经潜伏其中。它使我明白无误地联想到那本书，那个短语，它激起了我心中怒火这个恶魔；正是这位教授关于妇女在智力、道德、体力上低人一等的声明激怒了我。我的心儿狂跳。我的脸颊发烧。我气得满脸通红。不论有多么凶，这种愤怒并没有什么特别惊人之处。谁也不愿意听别人说，他生来就不如那个矮小男人——我瞅一眼身旁那位男生——他喘着气，戴着一条简易领带，而且这两个星期都没有刮过脸。人自然会有些愚蠢的虚荣心。这不过是人的天性而已，我想，并且开始在那位愤怒教授脸上画车轮和圆圈，直到他看上去好像着火的树丛，或者像一颗火光闪闪的彗星——反正像个幽灵，既无人形又无人味。那位教授现在不过是在汉普斯特德石南荒原（Hampstead Heath）顶部燃烧着的一束火把。我自己的怒火不久便得到了解释和宣泄；但是好奇心依然留存。如何解释教授们的愤怒？他们为何愤怒？因为，只要把这些著作所留下的印象稍加分析，其中总有一种慷慨激昂的成分。这种激昂有许多表现形式；它在讽刺、感伤、好奇、谴责之中把自己显示出来。但是，还有另外一种成分，它经常出现，却不能立刻加以辨别确认。我称它为愤怒。正是愤怒潜伏在下面，并且把它自己与其他各种情绪相混杂。从它各种奇特的效应来判断，它是经过伪装和复杂化的愤慨情绪，并非单纯的公开率直的愤怒。 不论那愤怒出于什么原因，审视着桌上那一大堆书，我想，这些书全都毫无用处。它们在科学上毫无价值，那就是说，尽管在人文上它们充满着教诲、兴趣、厌倦，以及斐济群岛居民的各种非常奇异的习惯风俗。它们是在情绪的红光而不是真理的白光照耀之下写出来的。所以，必须把它们都归还到中央那张书桌上去，让它们回归到这只硕大无比蜂巢中各自的蜂窝里去。整个上午工作的唯一收获，就是愤怒这件事情。那些教授们——我把他们合并成一堆——发怒了。还了书以后我站在廊柱下，四周是一些鸽子和史前时代的独木舟，为什么，我重复自问，为什么他们会发怒呢？我一边问着自己，一边漫步走开去，寻找一个用午餐的地方。我此刻称之为“他们的愤怒”这个东西，它的真实本质究竟是什么？I asked.这儿是一个哑谜，要长时间猜下去，直到我坐在大英博物馆附近某个小饭馆里，饭菜端上来了，还要边吃边猜。一位在我之前用餐的人，把晚报的中午版留在椅子上，在等着上菜之际，我开始懒洋洋地阅读报上的大标题。一行特大号字母像一条带子横贯整页报纸。某人在南非大获成功。较小字母的带状标题声称，奥斯丁·张伯伦爵士正在日内瓦。地窖里发现了一把沾有人的毛发的斩肉利斧。某某法官在离婚法庭上对妇女的无耻发表评论。各种别的新闻散布在报纸各个版面。一位女影星被人从加利福尼亚山崖上用绳子吊下来，却悬在半空中。天气将要转为多雾。来到这个星球时间最为短促的匆匆过客，我想，只要看了这张报纸，甚至仅由这些零碎证据来判断，也不可能意识不到英国是在男性家长制统治之下。没有一位有理性的人会看不出来那位教授所占的优势。他具有权力、金钱、影响。他就是报纸的经营者、主编、副主编。他就是外交部长和法官。他打板球；他拥有赛马和游艇。他是给股东们颁发200%红利的公司董事长。他把数百万英镑财产捐给他所管理的慈善机构和学院。他把那位女影星悬在半空中。他将裁决，沾在斩肉斧上的那根毛是不是人的毛发；将由他来宣判，那个犯人是无罪还是谋杀，是把他吊死还是把他释放。除了那雾以外，他似乎控制操纵每一件事情。然而，他还是发怒了。我是由此判断他发怒的：当我阅读他所写的关于妇女的著作之时，我所思考的不是他所说的话，而是他本人。当一位争论者不动感情地争论之时，他只是在思考他的论点；于是读者不得不也去思考那个论点。如果他不动感情地写作论述妇女的书，用无可争辩的论据来确立他的论点，而且毫无迹象表明他希望获得具有某种偏向的结论，那么人家也就不会愤怒了。人家就会承认这个事实，就好比承认豌豆是绿的，黄莺是黄的。我当然会说，就让它如此吧。但是，我刚才发怒了，因为他带有怒气。然而那似乎太荒唐了，我在翻阅晚报时思忖，一个具有所有这一切权力的男子汉，居然会发怒。我猜想，在某种程度上，愤怒是不是人们所熟悉的、始终追随着权力而听凭它驱使的幽灵？例如，富人经常发怒，因为他们怀疑穷人想要夺取他们的财富。那些教授们，或者更确切一点该称他们为男性族长们，或许有一部分是为了这个原因而发怒，还有一部分原因在外表上看来就不那么明显了。或许他们根本没有“发怒”；的确，他们经常倾慕别人，待人忠实，在私人生活关系方面堪为楷模。或许那位教授稍为过分地坚持女性的劣势之时，他所关心的并非她们的劣势，而是他本人的优势。那就是他头脑发热而过于强调地加以保护的东西，因为对他而言，这是稀世珍宝。对于男女两性双方而言——我瞧着他们在行人道上肩摩踵接，往前挤出一条自己的路来——人生是艰难的、困苦的，是一场永恒的斗争。它需要有无比巨大的勇气和力量。作为拥有幻想的生物，人生对我们所提出的超乎一切的最大需要，就是要有自信心。要是没有自信，我们就与摇篮中的婴儿一样。我们如何才能最快地培养出这种极其可贵而又不可估量的品质呢？那就是去想象别人比我低劣。那就是去想象自己与别人相比有天生的优势——它可能是财富、地位、挺直的鼻梁、或者出自罗姆尼之手的一幅祖父肖像画——因为人类想象力的可怜的花样，是无穷无尽的。因此，对于一位必须去征服、去统治他人的男性族长而言，这种优越感是极其重要的：那就是感到有许许多多人，事实上是人类一半的女人，生来就不如他。这种优越感，必定是他力量的主要来源之一。然而，我想，还是把观察的目光转向现实生活吧。它是否有助于解释我们在日常生活的边缘所注意到的那些令人困惑的心理现象？它是否能解释我数日之前的惊讶之情？那天Z先生，一位最有人情味、最谦逊有礼的男人，拿起丽贝卡·韦斯特的某一部小说，读了一段就惊呼道：“这恶名昭彰的女权主义者！她居然说男人们都是势利之徒！”这声惊呼令我不胜惊讶——为何韦斯特女士对男性作出了一个真实却带有贬意的评语，她就成了臭名昭著的女权主义者呢？ ——那不仅仅是虚荣心受到伤害而发出的呼喊；那是侵犯了他对于自己力量的自信心而发出的抗议。千百年来，女人一直被当作镜子，它具有令人喜悦的魔力，可以把男人的镜中映像，比他本身放大两倍。如果没有这种力量，或许这个地球仍然是沼泽和丛林。我们所有战争的光荣史亦无人知晓。我们就会仍然在吃剩的羊骨上画出野鹿的轮廓图，而且还在用火石换取羊皮或任何适合于我们朴实趣味的简单装饰品。超人和命运之神的手指，就会从未存在过。沙皇和恺撒大帝，也就会从未戴上过或失去过皇冠。不论在文明社会中它们有何用途，对于所有暴力和英雄行为而言，镜子都是必不可少的。这就是为什么拿破仑和墨索里尼两人都如此强调地坚持认为妇女低人一等，因为如果她们不处于劣势，他们就会停止自我膨胀。那可以用来部分地解释，为何男人常常需要女人。也可以用它来解释，男人在女人的批评之下是多么焦躁不安；如果女人对他们说，这本书写得不好，那幅画笔法软弱，或者不论有什么其他缺点，与男人作出同样的批评相比，女人的批评不可能不引起更加剧烈得多的痛苦和愤怒。因为，如果她一旦开始说真话，男人的镜中映像就会缩小；他的人生适合度就会减弱。除非他在用早餐或用晚餐时能够把自己看成至少有他实际尺码两倍那么大，否则他如何能够继续不断地作出判断、开化土人、制订法律、撰写著作、衣冠楚楚地在宴会上高谈阔论呢？我如此这般地反复思索，捏碎手中的面包，搅动杯里的咖啡，时时瞥一眼街上的行人。那镜中幻影绝对重要，因为它激发着生命力，激活了神经系统。把它拿走，男人可能会死，就像瘾君子被剥夺了他的可卡因。望着窗外行人，我想，在人行道上的这些人，其中有一半是在那幻影魔力的驱使之下迈开大步去工作。每天早晨，他们在这魔镜惬意的光芒之中戴帽穿衣。他们满怀信心、精神振奋地开始一天的生活，相信他们自己会被邀请参加史密斯小姐的茶会；走进房间时，他们对自己说，我比这儿一半的人更为优越，正因为如此，他们说起话来充满自信、自以为是，这在公众生活中产生了如此深刻的影响，并且在私人头脑的边缘留下了如此奇怪的注释。 但是，我对异性心理这个危险而又迷人的课题作出的这些贡献——这是一个我希望你每年自己有五百英镑收入时再加以调查研究的课题——却因必须付账而被打断了。午餐账单是五先令九便士。我给服务员一张十先令钞票，他去给我找回零钱。我注意到，钱包里还有另外一张十先令钞票，此事至今使我惊讶不已——我的钱包居然会有自动孵化出十先令钞票的力量。我打开钱包，钞票就在那儿。社会向我提供鸡肉和咖啡，床铺和住所，来换取姑母给我留下的相当数量的纸币，这些纸币之所以遗留给我，仅仅因为我与姑母同名，再也没有别的原因。 我的姑母玛丽·贝顿，我必须告诉你，是在印度孟买骑马呼吸新鲜空气时坠马身亡。那天晚上，我获悉继承遗产的消息，与国会通过妇女选举权法案大约差不多时间。一封律师信件投入了邮筒，当我打开信件，发现姑母永久性地给我留下了每年五百英镑赠款。在选举权和金钱这两者之间——我承认，金钱似乎绝对是重要得多。在此以前，我只能给报社写点零星杂稿谋