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OFESSIONS FOR WOMEN, , by Virginia Woot H, , “Professions for Women” is an abbreviated versig@of the speech Virginia, Woolf delivered before a branch of the National Society Lakedommere——, Service on Nenrnoe ; it was published posthumously in The [gavtt, of the and Other Essays. On the day before the speech, she wrote in, her diary: “I have this se neopdfoncn 0 my bath, conceived an entire, , new book—a sequel to a Roo One’s Own—about the sexual life of, , women: to be calleT~POTESSIOMfer Women perhaps —Lord how, exciting!” More than a year and a half later, o Oasis, Virginia Woolf began to write her new book: “THPARGITERS: An, ant based upon a paper read to the Lond, , >, , , , , , tional Society for, , , , , women’s service. Mto The Years and was, published, Roopof One’s Own was Three Guinea$ (1/938), and its first working title, , Was “Professions for Women A, , The essay printed here concentrates on that Victorian phantom known as, , ‘The Pargiters” evolved, , » The book that eventuaff¥ did become the sequel to A, , the Angel in the House (borrowed from Coventry Patmore’s poen, , celebrating domestic bliss)—that selfless, sacrificial woman, , , , nineteenth century whose sole purpose in life was to’ soothe, to, , to comfort the male half of the world’s populasion. “Killing the Angel in, , the House,” wrote Virginia Woolf, “was part of t. fpation of a, emoman writer.” That ahs proved to be a prophetic statement, for today,, not only in the domain of letters, but in the entire professional world,, women are Still engaged in that deadly contest in their struggle for social, and economic equality. ———————S, When your secretary invited me to come here, she tdld 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 | am a woman; it is true | am employed; but what professional, , ——_—S00——=Oro—X“ OL

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experiences have I had? It is difficult to say. My profession is literature; and in that profession, , there are fewer experiences for women thanin any other, with the the stage--fewpr, , I mean, that are peculiar to women. For the road was cut many years ago--by Fanny, , Appin, by Harrigaefartineau, by JanéAusten, by Gegf8e 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 pO, , —_——3—3—_—— eamreeEeee_<_u3_5Q$——, , 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, o'clock 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 hpw little I, , , , , , deserve to be called a professional woman, how little I know of the strugglesAnd difficulties of, such lives, I have to admit that instead of spending that sum upon bread butter, rey, shoes, and stockings, or butcher's bills, I went out and bought a cat--a beautifffl cat, a Persfin 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 1 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

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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 find or, wish of her own, but neers always with the minds and wishes 0 Above, all--I need not say it---sh@Avas pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief begafy--her blushes, oC, her great grace. In those days--the last of Queen Victoria--every house had its Angel. And when I, came to write | 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, | took my pen in my, hand to review that noyel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: "My dear, , you are a voungat, You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be, sympathetic; be tender; flatter, deceive; use all the arts “, of our sex. Never let anybody, , guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pefe." 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 despatched 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

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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. a, , But to continue my story. Thence was dead; what th mained? You may say that what, remained was a simple and common object--a young woman in a bedroom with an inkpot. In, other words, now that she had rid herself ofTalschoow-that young woman had only to be herself., Ah, but what is "herself"? I mean, what is a woman? | assure you, I do not know. I do not believe, that you know. I do not believe that anybody can know until she has expressed herself in all the, arts and professions open to human skill. That indeed is one of the reasons why I have come here, out of respect for you, who are in process of showing us by your experiments what a woman is,, who are in process Of providing us, by your failures and successes, with that extremely, , important piece of information., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , But to continue the story of my professional experiences. I made one pound ten and six by my, first review; and | 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 | am to obey, your secretary and tell you my professional experiences as a novelist, I must tell you about a very, strange experience that befell 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 lethargy. 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. | 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

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when I think of this girl is the image of a fisherpaéfh 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 cranny 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, longessDhis I beli very common experience with women writers--they apg.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 t ow erlences as a t 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, it will be a, , , , , elore 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, , nL