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"With anger and emphasis": the proof copy of A Room of One's Own.

Probably no other work by Virginia Woolf except for To the Lighthouse has influenced the world of letters more than the extended essay which she published in October 1929 as A Room of One's Own. (1) Concepts and terminology that are now common in learned and even popular parlance in the fields of literary criticism, aesthetics, gender studies, psychology, and political theory can trace their emergence (if not their origin) to this exploration of the topic of women and literature, often brilliantly woven into the fabric of a semi-fictional narrative. Consequently, students of Virginia Woolf and of English literary modernism have reason to be pleased that the proof copy of A Room of One's Own, never having been the subject of a published, systematic study, is now available to scholars and researchers for study, following its purchase in July 2007 by the New York Public Library's Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature. (2)

The book originated in two lectures that Woolf delivered in October 1928 at, respectively, Girton and Newnham Colleges, which at the time were Cambridge University's and Britain's only women's residential colleges. (3) In February 1928, Woolf had accepted the invitation of Newnham's Arts Society to speak in May on "Women and Fiction"; Girton's ODTAA [One damn thing after another] Society invited her for the same purpose, perhaps at the same time or very soon after she delivered the Newnham lecture. (4) But illness and the need to complete the novel Orlando delayed her Newnham appearance until the evening of October 20th, when she arrived an hour late for the dinner given in her honor, accompanied by Vanessa Bell and Bell's daughter Angelica, as well as by an unexpected guest, Virginia's husband, Leonard, whose presence upset the seating arrangements. (5) In A Room of One's Own, she would lampoon and lament the meal's mediocrity, which she saw as a telling, though apparently mundane, case in point that typified the shameful neglect shown by women of means toward the two impoverished bastions of women's higher education. (6) Of course, one of the chief points of A Room is that what we commonly regard as the mundane circumstances of a writer's or would-be writer's life--that is, the extent of their financial means and the independence, privacy, and leisure thereby made possible or impossible--actually play a crucial role in their potential creative success or failure. Our usual unwillingness to recognize this fact, Woolf argued, reflects a romantic and sentimental understanding of creative endeavor and accomplishment. Such sentimentalizing, she noticed, has been especially attractive to male critics when they contemplate the relative scarcity of women writers, since most of them, angry at women for reasons that Woolf painfully and painstakingly discovers and pitilessly dissects, believe that women are incapable of significant literary or artistic achievement.

On October 26th, accompanied by Vita Sackville-West, Woolf returned to Cambridge to deliver what was probably a somewhat different lecture on the same topic, before Girton's ODTAA. The manuscripts containing the texts of the lectures have yet to be discovered and probably do not survive, but Woolf's wording of her introductory notice in the first edition of A Room (in the proof copy, it appears as a footnote to the book's title that heads the first page of text) regarding the genesis of the book leads one to believe that the lectures differed from each other to some degree. Woolf informs us, "This essay is based upon two papers read to the Arts Society at Newnham and the ODTAA at Girton in October 1928. The papers were too long to be read in full, and have since been altered and expanded." If she had delivered the same paper at each venue, would not a more accurate wording of the events have read, "This essay is based on a paper read to" etc.? But perhaps she wished only to give the impression that she had written two different papers, or perhaps she was merely imprecise in her wording. Regardless, we can gather little definite information about the content of the two papers even from her diary, which does not mention the Newnham lecture's content, nor of her impression of the Newnham event (except for an evaluation of the Newnham students), nor of the lecture's reception.

Woolf does provide some information in her diary about the Girton lecture, though her remarks (in her entry for Saturday, October 27th) are confined largely to her impression of the students, to what she perceived as their casual irreverence toward her (which she does not seem to mind), and to the energizing effect on her of the entire experience. But the reference to the lecture's content is very brief. Here is the Girton portion of the entry in its entirety: "Thank God, my long toil at the women's lecture is this moment ended. I am back from speaking at Girton in floods of rain. Starved but valiant young women--that's my impression. Intelligent, eager, poor; & destined to become schoolmistresses in shoals. I blandly told them to drink wine & have a room of their own. Why should all the splendour, all the luxury of life be lavished on the Julians [she had visited her nephew Julian Bell at King's College just prior to the Girton lecture] & the Francises, & none on the Phares & the Thomases? [for Phare see note 5; Margaret Thomas was one of the ODTAA members who had invited Woolf to Girton.] There's Julian not much relishing it, perhaps. [...] (7) I felt elderly & mature. And nobody respected me. They were very eager, egotistical, or rather not much impressed by age & repute. Very little reverence or that sort of thing about" (D3 200-01).

Woolf's "bland" and absurdly reductive diary summary of the content of her talk was clearly intended in a spirit of humorous self-deprecation. The diary summary is amusing precisely because it is both an utterly inadequate recapitulation of her complex cultural, historical, and literary argument, and because it is accurate, or, if one prefers, not inaccurate. Undeniably, embedded in Woolf's seemingly off-hand synopsis is one of her work's essential propositions--that being able to afford a room of one's own, a (good) glass of wine, and the other creature comforts that these amenities represent are the material circumstances without which gifted women cannot hope to write at all, and certainly not express freely whatever literary gift they may possess. Even Shakespeare could not have thrived under such conditions. His plays, Woolf says at the beginning of Chapter 3, are like spider webs that "seem to hang there complete in themselves," unattached to life. But she is acutely aware "that these webs are not spun in mid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in" (58 [41-42]). (8)

The Newnham student E. E. Phare's testimony regarding Woolf's Newnham lecture, cited by Rosenbaum (xv), in fact refers to Woolf talking about the legal and customary limitations which so severely restricted women's financial independence, one of the results of which was that they were unable to write anywhere but in their parlors. This and more, Woolf says, accounts for the relative paucity of women authors through the centuries. Rosenbaum gathers from Woolf's summary of her Girton talk (young women should "drink wine and have a room of their own") that "This does not sound quite like her Newnham paper" (Rosenbaum xvii). But it seems to me that there is every reason to believe (as I have tried to make clear above) that Woolf's views regarding the effect of a would-be writer's material circumstances on the would-be writer's prospects for success was presented not only at Girton but at Newnham.

Though we do not know exactly how the lectures evolved into the early drafts of the book that we know as A Room of One's Own, we can now see how Woolf, on the eve of the book's publication, made numerous, substantive changes to her text. Generally, the discovery of a proof copy of a well-known work does not excite great interest. By the time a work is out of galleys, most substantive changes have been incorporated into the text, and by the time a proof copy has been printed, only the correction of typographical and orthographic errors or the occasional, minor alteration of word order should be expected. However, the proof copy of A Room contains scores of passages (see the Appendix below) which differ substantively from those which appear in the text of the first and subsequent editions of the work. (9) In view of the importance of this literary artifact and because it is difficult to anticipate the ways in which the physical description of a volume may be used to advance our understanding of the text contained between its covers, an illustrated description follows.

The volume is bound in green printed papers decorated with yellow dots and black crescent shadows pasted on binder's boards, and with the title and author's name gilt tooled within gilt borders on a green calfskin rectangle affixed to the top board (see Figure 1). The title page bears the Hogarth Press imprint (Figure 2), and the book was printed in Edinburgh by R. & R. Clark, Limited, according to the statement on the title page verso. The blue, oval Clark stamp, in the center of which is the date, beginning 10-JUL-1929 on the half-title page and ending with 22-JUL-1929 on p.161, indicating the date of printing, appears at the bottom of several pages, accompanied by the stamp "FIRST PROOF" at the top of the page (see the half-title page, Figure 3). The papers covering the binding boards have the simple, almost rustic appearance of those that were sometimes used at Hogarth, and the volume may have been bound by Woolf, probably after she revised it. The proof copy's type imposition; the order of its preliminaries, including the half-title page, the list of works by Woolf, and the title page; the text beginning on p. 5--all of this is identical to what is printed in the Hogarth Press edition, according to Kirkpatrick, except that the latter paginates the fourth page (whereas no page number for this page appears in the proof copy), and the text ends on page 172 instead of the proof copy's page 176, a consequence of Woolf's deleting more text from the proof copy than she added to it. As for manuscript evidence of revision within the proof text, no words in Woolf's or anyone else's hand are present. But the revision or deletion of lengthy passages are usually accompanied by a light pencil line in the outer and, occasionally, inner margins. (A handful of small, penned and penciled checks appear in the text, but these do not appear beside any passages that were revised or deleted.) (10)

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That the proof copy text of A Room was so heavily revised should draw the eager attention of anyone who has studied the book's complicated textual evolution and has read Woolf's diary entries about her struggles with the text. The most comprehensive investigation into this process has been undertaken by S. P. Rosenbaum, who realized that what had been thought to be a single Woolf manuscript (housed at the Fitzwilliam Museum) of five chapters titled "Women & Fiction" actually comprises two manuscripts, and who transcribed the texts of those manuscripts, as well as of manuscript pages that are part of the Monks House Papers at the University of Sussex, most of which form a section that links the two groups of Fitzwilliam drafts. In his introduction, Rosenbaum lucidly traces the complex relationships of the Fitzwilliam and Monks House manuscripts and also advances a convincing hypothesis regarding the work's emergence from the two lectures. (11) He also helpfully cites earlier and later talks and publications by Woolf on aspects of topics explored in A Room, most notably Woolf's 1929 article "Women and Fiction" published in The Forum, (12) which he also transcribes.

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In addition, Rosenbaum provides a transcription of selected passages from Woolf's typescript of A Room (housed among the Monk's House Papers at Sussex), which, as he notes, Woolf sent to Harcourt Brace in May or June 1929. Rosenbaum based his selection on what he regarded as "The most important differences between the typescript and the first editions" (176). But when different readers examine any complex literary text, it is almost inevitable that they will arrive at different conclusions regarding which passages are "most important." The "most important" or at least highly significant differences that I have discovered in the course of a line-by-line comparison of the proof copy text and the text of the first edition are far more numerous than those indicated in Rosenbaum's selective transcriptions from the Monks House typescript. Some of them will be discussed in this article; the rest will await analysis in this or other forums. The Appendix that I have provided below comprises a transcription of those passages in which the proof copy text differs from the text of the first edition. In compiling this list I have not imposed my judgment on what is or is not important, and have noted every textual change, however insignificant (others may find significance where I do not), including any alteration in word order or tense, typographical errors (few), orthographic differences (again, rare), grammatical errors (even rarer), and punctuation changes, (13) including those reflecting differences between British and American usage in punctuation marks that are adjacent to closed quotation marks. In two instances, I have provided a word in brackets, the absence of which makes the phrase ungrammatical. In those two instances, Woolf changed the passages in the first edition in a manner that omitted the ungrammatical words. If I did not supply the brackets, the reader might falsely suspect that the grammatical error was made by me in transcription. (14)

An examination of Rosenbaum's selected transcriptions from the Monks House typescript, i.e., those in which the typescript differs from the first edition in what he identified as "very important" ways, reveals that some of the typescript passages were revised before passing into the proof copy, meaning, no doubt, that a second typescript was prepared bearing these revisions, and that, then, those proof copy passages were significantly revised again for the first edition, which changes would have been embodied in a third typescript. (Whether separate ribbon copy typescripts or carbons of the third typescript were used for the Hogarth Press and Harcourt Brace editions is not known. In any case, no typescript in either ribbon or carbon copy is known to survive.) Because I have not yet seen the Monks House typescript or a facsimile of it, I have not been able to compare it with the proof copy and, therefore, cannot say which of the other differences between the proof copy and the first edition that I have noted were already present in the typescript. I must assume that many are not, since they seem to me so important that I doubt that Rosenbaum would have omitted them from his selection of "very important" differences. (15)

Before commencing our analysis of the most important variants between the proof copy and first edition texts, we should acknowledge the importance of identifying even those passages that Woolf transcribed into the proof text verbatim (or nearly so) from the Monks House typescript and which she changed only upon rereading the proof. One might think that for such passages, since they do not differ from the Monks House typescript, the proof copy would be irrelevant. Not so. That these passages survived Woolf's scrutiny until the very last moment is itself significant, revealing how strongly she felt about what they stated or implied, to the extent that she felt compelled to shift and, in some cases, reverse their sense. Accordingly, I have included the more remarkable of these changes (limited by what I could compile from Rosenbaum's selective transcriptions) among my analyses and interpretations of the changes that Woolf, in preparing the first edition text, had made to proof copy passages that themselves bear no change made to the Monks House typescript text.

As an introduction to our comparison of the proof copy and the first edition, it will be useful to examine the initial footnote that appears in the proof copy and which appears in the first edition printed in italic on the recto of the leaf following the title page and preceding the half-title. The note, as we saw above, informs us that in writing the book Woolf expanded the two papers that she read at Newnham and Girton. As the reader soon discovers, a good portion of the expansion is due to the introductory, semi-fictional narrative that Woolf creates, in which she conflates the two visits into one, and describes what she did on this visit, what she saw, reacted to, reflected on, and felt. Cambridge has become "Oxbridge"--not the first time the term was used in print (Thackeray was probably the first, in the late 1840s), but its appearance in A Room of One S Own is arguably most responsible for its popularity. Its use is significant because the book was intended, in large part, as an exposure of the misogyny of England's patriarchal educational and social elite, whose training grounds were Oxford and Cambridge. In the first edition of A Room, about half of the 200 or so emended passages contain changes of word order that do not appreciably affect the sense of what had appeared in the proof text, though they seem to have been intended as stylistic improvements, and may largely be regarded as such. Only two dozen or so passages contain punctuation changes, and the proof contains a mere handful of typos. But more than seventy of the changes alter the sense of the passages significantly.

Many of the changes occur in passages that contain, in Woolf's characteristically allusive, subtle, and often elliptical fashion, references to dense and complex ideas. The alterations to these passages are interesting in themselves--that is, in the shifts, even reversals, of meaning they impart to the text. But they are also interesting en masse, in the characteristics that they share. Most of them flatten and chill the tone of passages marked by confessional immediacy, by an anger that crackles with wit and mockery, by vivid metaphor, by dramatic scenes depicting the dynamic of male-female relationships, and by a rhythmic alternation of arguments entertainingly elaborated, explored, and consummated in robust detail, and slyly elliptical musings of the kind we have seen flicker across the minds of Woolf's fictional characters. True, much of the vibrant spirit, subtlety, and, certainly, acute psychological and cultural analysis remains in the published text; the book is an astonishing achievement. But equally certain is that Woolf's editorial surgery, which reshaped her genre-melding essayistic journey into a more traditional and formal polemic bled much of the life out of it, as she exchanged metaphor and colloquialism for abstraction, the particular for the general, the hortatory for the expositive, the contemplative essayist's nuanced and tentative reflection for the partisan's certitude, (16) and imagined scenes rich in drama and psychological insight for well wrought but prosaic declarations of principles.

Why did Woolf make so many changes in the proof copy, so late in the editorial day? Many of the changes, as I noted above, are purely stylistic (or as "pure," i.e., free from implications about meaning, as a stylistic change can ever be said to be);17 they clarify the sense or read more smoothly than the readings that they replace; and some of them correct punctuation and orthography. But what of the others, the changes that significantly affect the meaning? Many of them reflect a desire to soften or reverse the meaning of passages that might be read as stereotypical portrayals of women (as being too angry at men, self-pitying, incapable of intellectual analysis, vague, or uncertain), or which might make women appear as complicit partners in their own oppression. Others, again, have a different origin. This study's title is a phrase taken from a passage that appears toward the end of Chapter 4, as Woolf identifies the fatal flaw in most of the novels written by women in the early nineteenth century: "One has only to skim those old forgotten novels and listen to the tone of voice in which they are written to divine that the writer was meeting criticism; she was saying this by way of aggression, or that by way of conciliation. She was admitting that she was 'only a woman', or protesting that she was 'as good as a man'. She met that criticism as her temperament dictated, with docility and diffidence, or with anger and emphasis. It does not matter which it was; she was thinking of something other than the thing itself (103 [73]). Woolf herself wrote much of A Room of One's Own "with anger and emphasis," and, as we will see below, at the last moment softened or even reversed the meaning of some of her angriest and most emphatic passages, including some of the best. This she did not from "docility and diffidence," but under the influence of a doctrine of literary creativity that regarded the expression of the "personal" as incompatible with the purest expression of artistic truth. Woolf's central proposition, as expressed in her title, is that women must have the financial means to acquire the private and quiet space, the leisure, and, yes, the decent food and drink that will allow them to channel their creative energies into their writing. But she does not ignore psychological factors, most of which are linked to the writer's need to transcend her conditioning and personality. Only such transcendence, in Woolf's view, will enable the writer to look upon the "thing in itself," free of resentment and biased judgment, and thereby allow her to express her creativity in its most perfect form.

T. S. Eliot first formulated this theory in his landmark essay on the relationship of poetic creativity to tradition, in "Tradition and the Individual Talent" (1919). (18) According to Eliot, great poetry can be written only if it conforms to (not imitates) the culture's grand poetic tradition (in his and Woolf's case, the Western tradition) and, within that, the poetic tradition of the poet's "own country." Eliot believes that "the historical sense compels" a good poet to write with the feeling that the entirety of European literature (not just the best of it, but the most authentic), including that of his own country, is "in his bones." For Eliot, great poems, the great works of literature in general, exist in "an ideal order," where relationships among the works are modified by each new work that enters the order. In this timeless, ideal realm, the works converse with each other and modify each other's meanings; not only past works influencing those created in the present, but new works influencing the meaning of those created in the past. The most important factor that determines whether or not a poet will succeed in creating a poem that is good or authentic enough to join the ideal order is the "extinction of [his or her] personality," which s/he will accomplish by digesting and transmuting "the passions." Eliot's corollary to this principle is that great poetry owes its greatness not to the intensity of emotion that may have prompted its composition, but to the intensity of the artistic process itself. For Eliot, great poetry is not an expression of emotion and personality, but, as he puts it, an "escape" from them. The great task of the artist is to "transmute" his passion and personality through the intensity of the creative process: "the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates; the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material." Woolf took this teaching to heart, probably because it conformed to what she already believed or wished to believe.

For Woolf, Shakespeare is the supreme alchemist of transmutation. Her paean to him at the end of Chapter 3 reveals how categorically she excludes the writer's emotional life from her conception of authentic artistic creativity, and concludes with these lines: "The reason perhaps why we know so little of Shakespeare--compared with Donne or Ben Jonson or Milton--is that his grudges and spites and antipathies are hidden from us. [...] All desire to protest, to preach, to proclaim an injury, to pay off a score, to make the world the witness of some hardship or grievance was fired out of him and consumed. Therefore his poetry flows from him free and unimpeded. If ever a human being got his work expressed completely, it was Shakespeare. If ever a mind was incandescent, unimpeded, I thought, turning again to the bookcase, it was Shakespeare's mind" (79 [56]).

Defining Shakespeare's genius and artistic success in these terms allows Woolf to pair him with Jane Austen, the sole writer, male or female, to whom Woolf pays this tribute. (Emily Bronte is praised with Austen for daring "to hold fast to the thing as they saw it," but without particulars in Bronte's case.) (19) In Chapter 3, having returned home from Oxbridge, Woolf continues her research into the subject of women and literature, and taking from her bookcase a volume of Shakespeare, reads from Antony and Cleopatra. What she will, in Chapter 6 of the proof copy (page 160), call the play's "molten uniformity" (the phrase forms part of a long passage on the play omitted from the first edition) prompts this reflection: "when people compare Shakespeare and Jane Austen, they may mean that the minds of both had consumed all impediments; and for that reason we do not know Jane Austen and we do not know Shakespeare, and for that reason Jane Austen pervades every word that she wrote, and so does Shakespeare" (94 [67]). (20) The extended proof copy passage on Antony and Cleopatra (in Chapter 6), just alluded to (most, but not all of which is in the Monks House typescript), was largely omitted from the first edition. The style is a bit rough, as Woolf is still struggling to clarify for herself the mystery of how Shakespeare reconciled the fragments of his tumultuous emotions and thoughts, uniting them in "some marriage of opposites." "Marriage of opposites" is a phrase that Woolf will use and elaborate upon toward the book's conclusion, when she speaks of the need for novelists to be uninhibitedly open, even unconsciously so, to their inherent androgyny.

Woolf theorizes that Austen must have achieved this uninhibited, Shakespearean, probably unconscious, access to her androgynous sensibility. (If Shakespeare had consciously directed his creativity in any way, it would have constituted a form of inhibition. One would not experience a "sense of freedom" after reading Antony and Cleopatra, "if Shakespeare had interfered, had checked his mind and forced it to do this and that. Any such consciousness would have chilled the flow of the words that are all melted together and made them harden and fall off separately one by one.") But Austen is exceptional. Much more typical of the early nineteenth-century women novelists, says Woolf, is Charlotte Bronte, whose Jane Eyre she compares to Austen's Pride and Prejudice, finding the former fatally marred by Bronte's simmering rancor (21) against men, a reaction to the severe limitations on her ability to gain experience of the world, which their misogyny has imposed on her. Bronte's resentment, says Woolf, prevented her from looking freely, uninhibitedly, at the world around her; consequently, she could not fulfill her genius. As an example of the way in which Bronte's wounded psyche afflicted her creativity, Woolf quotes a passage from Jane Eyre in which Jane surveys the countryside around her, a description that is jarringly interrupted by Jane's recollection of Grace Poole's harsh laughter. Bronte's breaking into Jane's reverie at that moment is, in Woolf's opinion, a serious artistic error; it is an instance of Bronte's anger deforming her artistic expression. Woolf concedes that Bronte's pages exhibit "more genius" than Austen's; "but if one reads them over and marks that jerk in them, that indignation, one sees that she will never get her genius expressed whole and entire. Her books will be deformed and twisted. She will write in a rage where she should write calmly. She will write foolishly where she should write wisely. She will write of herself where she should write of her characters. She is at war with her lot. How could she help but die young, cramped and thwarted?"(96).

Toward the end of Chapter 4, Woolf explicitly states that women must forge their own literary style, since "The sentence that was current at the beginning of the nineteenth century" (22) would be "a clumsy weapon" in their hands. Such was the case, says Woolf, with Charlotte Bronte, since in her hands that kind of sentence was fashioned by a male sensibility. (23) Woolf is ruthless in her attack on Bronte and her female contemporaries for their inability to transmute their anger, their "impediments," in the fire of creativity and forge a style, a literature, which authentically expressed their experience of the world. Of Bronte's writing she says: "Now, in the passages I have quoted from Jane Eyre, it is clear that anger was tampering with the integrity of Charlotte Bronte the novelist. She left her story, to which her entire devotion was due, to attend to some personal grievance" (101 [72]). The irony of Bronte's predicament, and that of her female peers, is that they had to imitate the unsuitable style of the male writers of their time because their hostility toward men prevented them from creating a style of their own.

Yet a similar irony characterizes Woolf's predicament. Her most significant emendations, in which she recasts her characteristically supple, allusive, and intense style into the "clumsy weapon" of masculine polemic, is a form of self-censorship for which she had attacked Bronte et al., and against which she was warning her own contemporaries. The irony is compounded, because much of this kind of emendatory surgery was performed with the intention of presenting to us the ideal visage of the transmuted, "impersonal" artist. When we say that Woolf judges Austen to be the solitary example of a woman writer whose mind has "consumed all impediments," including her anger at having to pursue her literary vocation surreptitiously, subject to numerous interruptions in the parlor, we need to add to the word "solitary" the qualifying phrase, "except for Woolf herself." The proof copy is rife with examples of Woolf attempting to erase from the text any evidence of her untransmuted anger, or of what might be called an aggrieved sensibility. (24)

In the very passage in which Woolf praises Austen for having been able to write despite the interruptions endemic to a parlor, the proof copy version reads: "If a woman wrote, she would have to write in the common sitting-room. And though it must always be difficult to write in the common sitting-room with people going in and out, still it would be easier to write prose and fiction there than to write poetry or a play. Less concentration is required. One would not lose one's temper so violently if interrupted. Jane Austen wrote like that to the end of her days" (Proof, 100-101). (25) Woolf cannot know that Austen would have lost her temper violently had she written poetry instead of fiction. Note that Woolf says "so violently," implying that Austen must have lost her temper at least a little when she was writing her novels. But Woolf cannot know this either. In fact, in the very next line, she quotes Austen's nephew expressing his surprise at his aunt's equanimity and success in the face of such interruptions. (26) Clearly Woolf is imagining how she (or probably any of us) would have felt if compelled to write under similar circumstances. It is an honest, dramatic, effective passage. The phrase "with people going in and out" shows that the writer has keenly imagined what it would be like to try and write anything, poetry or a novel, in a parlor. But in the first edition, Woolf omitted the reference to losing one's temper or to "people going in and out" and added a quote from Florence Nightingale, (27) so that the passage now reads: "If a woman wrote, she would have to write in the common sitting-room. And, as Miss Nightingale was so vehemently to complain,--'women never have an half hour ... that they can call their own'--she was always interrupted. Still it would be easier to write prose and fiction there than to write poetry or a play. Less concentration is required. Jane Austen wrote like that to the end of her days" (92 [66]). Woolf did not wish to have others see her, or Austen for that matter, as anything less than an exemplar of the impersonal creator whose anger and resentment had been consumed in the fires of her creativity.

Related to this editorial program are Woolf's moderation and deletion of proof copy passages proclaiming or describing the pathetic situation of women, as well as of passages which imply that women are complicit with men in the virilization of English letters and, more generally, of Western culture and politics, all of which will propel Europe into another major war. Even Woolf's apparently simple, declarative statement near the beginning of the book, about the impossibility of arriving at a definitive conclusion that would address the permutations of the subject encompassed by "women and fiction," has been changed significantly from the proof copy. The proof text reads: "I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions--women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, mysterious, unknown" (Proof, 6) This phrase Woolf emended to read in the first edition thus: "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" (4 [4]). The prosaic "unsolved problems," a typical phrase in any standard expository essay, has replaced the more metaphysical and poetic "mysterious, unknown." Why did Woolf emend the passage in this way? Read in the context of the book's main themes and in concert with other similar changes she made to the proof text, some of which we will analyze below, one can conclude only that she feared that the proof copy phrase might help male critics to perpetuate a stereotype of women as embodiments of "mystery," the corollary of which would be that this essential quality of their natures limits their understanding of whatever subject they are supposedly investigating. Ideas presented by a woman who commences her examination of the subject(s) of women and fiction by calling them mysteries and unknowns (implying "unknowable") would fit too easily into stereotypical male conceptions of women's "essential nature." Woolf, understandably, feared exposing herself to accusations of being a "typical woman," dependent on intuition and unable to analyze the subjects about which she writes. The phrase "unsolved problems," however, denotes analysis, allegedly the male domain. (28) "I can argue with (and like) the best of you," Woolf implicitly asserts in such changes. But in excising "mysterious, unknown"--in submitting to male judgment--Woolf was denying an essential feature of her approach to literature and was committing the very sin of which she found Charlotte Bronte guilty.

A vast expanse of consciousness divides those who see the world only as a set of problems which can or cannot be solved, and those who see the world as containing not only problems to be solved, but mysteries and phenomena which are essentially unknowable and which require us to move through life guided by intuitive sympathy and humility as much as by reason. Woolf's novels, short-stories, and essays reveal a mind capacious enough to encompass both ways of apprehending the world and its recreation in art. Her innovations in fiction, beginning most obviously with Jacob's Room (1922), show her attempting to find a means of imaginatively representing the human organism--mind and body--in its moment-to-moment reactions to the world, to its memories, and to the interactions of past and present. The identity of the narrative voice itself, whether it belongs to an omniscient narrator or to some part of a character's consciousness, is often intentionally unclear, as is the boundary between the outside world and its interpretation through the perceptions of that character. Her most audacious narrative style is akin to interior monologue (not quite stream of consciousness), distinguished by the eloquently unfinished thought or observation, allowing the reader to see motivations that are obscure to the character herself. Hints of this approach are displayed effectively and sometimes with brilliant wit in A Room, especially in its narrative portions, and though much of this remains in the published text, much of it was omitted. The difficulty for Woolf was that the "uninhibited" quality of her writing in A Room, whether it took the form of allusion and indirection or of vehement sarcasm and irony, conflicted with her conscious attempt to present herself as the authentic, "impersonal" artist who has resolved all "impediments."

In the book's opening, narrative portion, two representatives of Oxbridge officialdom shake her artist's equanimity by forcing on her the awareness that she--as a woman--is an alien, unwanted presence in the university. In Chapter 1, an officious Oxbridge Beadle shoos her off of a plot of grass (which, having been rolled for centuries into a dense lushness, is as characteristic of Oxbridge tradition as the magnificent buildings), his face expressing "horror and indignation" (7 [6]). Though the incident is a representative example of the kind of exclusionary prejudice that she will explore in A Room, the Beadle's arm-waving fury does not seem to have aroused in her an anger to match his, though her dryly ironic recapitulation of the event barely hides her irritation. But she does admit to having been overcome with anger during her next encounter with male officialdom at Oxbridge, when she is refused entry into a college library (she wished to examine the manuscript of Milton's "Lycidas") because she is a "lady." In this instance, the official is, in his manner, inoffensive, "a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman, who regretted in a low voice" (9 [7-8]) that he could not permit her to enter the library except in the company of a College Fellow or with a letter of introduction. But his kindly manner does not alter the fact that she has been injured and insulted by Oxbridge's institutional misogyny, and after cursing the library, she leaves it "in anger" (10 [8]).

Obviously, Woolf is ready to admit that she gets angry when she is wronged. What she will not concede is that the emotion can dominate her for very long, for a writer who has not transmuted her anger is incapable of producing great literature. Toward the end of the first chapter, as she strolls back to her inn at nightfall, she recalls her treatment at the hands of the Beadle and library guardian, and also reflects on the grand manner in which an ancient tradition of reverence for literature, rigorous intellectual inquiry, and scholarship has manifested itself in nobly designed, luxuriously appointed buildings, libraries, and dining halls supplied with well-stocked larders and wine cellars. A prodigious amount of wealth, labor, and skill has been carefully organized over the centuries for the improvement and enjoyment of a select group of men. Unlike Eliot, Woolf is not reluctant to bear witness to the ways in which "grossly material things," and not just familiarity with the great literary works of the "ideal order," may promote the nurturing of great writers. She understands that the functions of body, mind, and emotions are inseparable from each other. As she puts it, "One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well" (25 [18]).

Yet at the conclusion of that first night in Oxbridge, having been treated as an interloper in the sacred grove of higher learning, and "thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer," she is ready, but with suspicious ease, "to roll up the crumpled skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge" (33 [24]). Anger and laughter alike are briskly discarded, for, after all, isn't the ability to transcend the personal, especially anger, one of the distinguishing marks of a great writer? For Woolf, the presence of anger in women is a pitiable sign that they yet regard themselves as victims, as in the case of Charlotte Bronte and almost all other women novelists of the early nineteenth century. This attitude accounts, in part, for her emendation of proof copy passages that might be read as indictments of women in general for this sin.

Such a passage is the one just quoted. In the proof copy, the passage reads "and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of [the] poverty and insecurity of the other and of their effect upon the mind of a writer," (Proof, 37). To the first edition text of this passage Woolf added a phrase, so that the passage reads: "thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer," (33 [24]). The addition emphasizes that enormous financial resources are necessary for the preservation and cultivation of a literary tradition. But the added phrase also ensures that the passage does not read as an indictment of the Fernham students as stereotypical female victims, impoverished and afraid. By drawing the reader's attention to the disparity between the female and male students' material circumstances in the larger historical context of women's restricted access to culture and wealth, Woolf reminds us that Fernham's relative poverty is not a consequence of women's inherent weakness, but of centuries of male oppression. Similarly, the revised passage implies, women's relatively meager representation in the tradition (or as Eliot might say, in the "ideal order") is attributable to having been deprived of the means, material as well as intellectual, to enter it.

Having confronted and reflected on the painfully wide disparity between the resources available to men and to women, and the relationship of this disparity to literary creativity, Woolf seeks to discover what the historians, scientists, and great writers have said on the subject. (29) The obvious place to begin such an inquiry is the British Museum Library, where she is overwhelmed, first, by the staggering number of books written by men about women, and then by the jumble of contradictory opinions that these books express. Women are said to have certain capabilities either in abundance (usually, forms of idealization) or to lack them entirely. The confusion of opinions and competing authorities distresses, bewilders, and humiliates her: "Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped" (41 [30]). In the proof copy, however, she had confessed simply, "It made me wish more than ever that I had been educated at Oxbridge" (Proof, 45). (30) The first edition change is certainly a masterly use of metaphor, perfectly matched to sense, and one can plausibly argue that it enhances the argument's progress. The metaphorical image vividly and tersely conveys how unsuitable the source material was for her purposes; the confused writings of angry men cannot contain the slightest truth about women. As readers, we know that we are in the presence of a writer whose wit and intelligence are equal to anything found in the writings of Oxbridge men. The advantages of this phrase over the phrase in the proof copy are obvious. But the appealingly innocent, confessional quality of the proof text passage has been lost. No doubt, Woolf did not wish to be seen as envying too keenly the Oxbridge which had educated so many of the men whose asinine remarks about women she is about to quote. A female polemicist who argues that women are at least as capable as men does not need to complicate her task by expressing a yearning to have attended Oxbridge, thereby giving her opponents the opportunity to call into question her confidence in those very capabilities which she asserts are equal to a man's.

In the course of her research into the causes of women's subservient status, Woolf is shocked by the numerous assertions of men--educated, wealthy, powerful men--about women's alleged intellectual inferiority and weakness of character, and by their failing to provide any supporting evidence. Their assertions of so-called fact are no more than angry screeds. This anger she finds puzzling, since these men and others like them in her day held and continued to hold the levers of power and privilege. Accordingly, Woolf's curiosity is drawn to the question, Why are privileged men so angry at women? Her ironic descriptions of the shrill, absurd, misogynistic arguments of the male scholars and writers that she quotes and paraphrases as she conducts her investigation are corrosive, and her sarcasm shriveling. The most hateful figure in the rogue's gallery that she assembles is the fictional (but, in Woolf's view, representative) Professor von X, the author of the idiotic treatise, "The Mental, Moral, and Physical Inferiority of the Female Sex." Her encounter with his writings and the pain and anger with which she reacts to it, reveal to her the nature of male anger, and anger in general, even her own. Her reaction will also prove to be the perfect occasion to share the experience of her own transmutation.

Professor von X, as Woolf says she imagined him as she read his book in the British Museum, has been warped by his anger; he is ugly in body and soul. She attempts to discover the source of his hostility to women. But as she reads his ignorant assertions about women, she finds, to her chagrin, that she herself has become very angry, if only in reaction to the misogyny of this learned ignoramus. A causal chain of hostile thoughts and feelings unspools in her psyche, until the chain is suddenly broken, she says, by the realization that a subconscious stream of sadness flows beneath the angry surface of the theories of Professor von X and of other ever-acquisitive, powerful men. (31) She sees that "the patriarchs, the professors," the men who wield power and wealth, are tortured by a self-generated suffering, which is the obsession to acquire ever more power and wealth. As she considers these men's subconscious wretchedness, "by degrees fear and bitterness modified themselves into pity and toleration," which "in a year or two" was transformed into a "freedom to think of things in themselves," i.e., without the distorting effects of anger, or, presumably, any other conditioned "personal" response. Having now presented herself as an embodiment of transcendence or transmutation (to use Eliot's term), naturally she would be distressed on rereading the proof copy by passages that contained evidence to the contrary. The impulse to deflect the original intention of these passages would have been overwhelming, even at the eleventh editorial hour.

What may surprise the reader of the proof copy is that the hostility that is expressed in the proof text and which was modified or omitted from the first edition, is directed against women as well as men. The starkest example of this appears mid-way through Chapter 2, in the aftermath of the narrator (whether we call her Virginia Woolf, or Mary Beton, Mary Seton, or Mary Carmichael) sharing her revelation that members of the patriarchy may be "admiring, devoted, exemplary in the relations of private life"; (32) they are not so much concerned with maintaining the inferiority of others, she now sees, as they are with maintaining their own superiority. (Whether or not this is mere sophism, a distinction without a difference, is beside the point for our purposes.) Feeding this sense of superiority is the human need for confidence, however illusory, without which we could not survive the struggle that is life. One example of this phenomenon present in both the proof copy and the first edition is found in Chapter 2, as Woolf, seated in restaurant, considers how the eyes of women have for centuries served as a kind of magnifying mirror for their mates, reflecting "the figure of man at twice its natural size." But the passages which immediately follow this insight differ greatly in the proof copy and in the first edition. The first edition reads: "Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheepskins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Czar and the Kaiser would never have worn their crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action" (49 [35]). The proof copy passage differs from this dramatically: "The Czar looks into the eyes of the Czarina; the Kaiser looks into the eyes of the Kaiserin; in both they see themselves reflected far bigger than they appear elsewhere. Thus they begin bragging and boasting; they imagine themselves Supermen or Fingers of Destiny or whatever the phrase may be; and we are plunged in all the glories of a European war. Mirrors are essential to men of action in particular, I thought" (Proof, 53-54).

In the proof copy text, Woolf sketches the lineaments of a dramatic scene, in which each monarch looks into his wife's eyes and sees himself magnified. Woolf thereby links the dynamic of male-female intimacy with the "glories," that is, the horrors, of the First World War. The worship that is enforced or seduced in the royal drawing room or bedroom, she is saying, unleashes a paroxysm of male violence on the battlefield. Though the first edition text implicates women as complicit agents of their mates' narcissism, since "Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses," that complicity is passive and only implied. The proof copy passage, however, extends the mirror metaphor and explicitly implicates the wives as enablers of their husbands' narcissism, thereby increasing their share of the blame for the ensuing carnage. In rereading the proof copy, Woolf chose to delete entirely the depiction of the royal couples staring into each other's eyes, and replace it with an ironic reprise of a common nineteenth-century rationalization of warfare as an evil which is necessary for the formation and maintenance of human society. She implies, in the first edition passage, that humanity might have been better off remaining a race of relatively peaceful cave-dwellers, if the price of so-called civilization is periodic mass slaughter. This is effective, passionate polemic. Sacrificed to it, however, is the psychological insight and complexity of the scene delineated in the proof copy passage, resonant with the echo of Greek myth and tragic drama--of the psychological dynamic of royal couplings which inexorably drag kingdoms into war, doom innocents to slaughter, and leave civilizations in smoking ruin. In the proof passage, the culpability for the consequences of the Czar's and Kaiser's narcissistic warrior fantasies is shared by their enabling consorts. But the moral ambiguity of such a passage blurs the clear lines of Woolf's polemical argument against a patriarchal culture. The gazing-into-the-eyes passage had to go. (33)

But just as Woolf does not wish the complex nuances of her ideas about women's culpability for men's transgressions, as found in the proof copy, to be caricatured or otherwise misused by male critics (for which reason she emended the proof copy passages), so she is also wary about being taken for an angry women's rights agitator. In the proof copy, as she looks out of the restaurant window at the throngs of purposefully striding men, energized by their wives' magnifying, reflecting gaze, she realizes that the looking-glass theory of male-female relationship also explains why men are driven to limit women's possibilities, despite the fact that enabling them to cultivate and employ their talents would improve society. Men are hopelessly addicted to the idea that they are superior to women because it is the only way that they can get through the day. So addicted are they to this illusion, that (Woolf fantasizes) if documentary proof were discovered of the literary and scientific superiority of a heretofore unknown tribe of women in Central Asia, the news would so enrage the patriarchs that they would either steal the documents or put a man's name on them: "they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is then that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance--but the course of these reflections was interrupted. The waiter brought the bill. [paragraph] And the theory of the looking-glass, I thought, as I opened my purse, also serves to explain what otherwise seems irrational and against human interest--the strong wish on the part of one sex that the other shall not bring trophies to the common store surpassing those which he brings himself. Were a tribe of women discovered in Central Asia, say, one of whom had written plays better than Lear, another made a discovery of greater importance than Einsteins [sic], the news would be received in London at first with incredulity; later, if it were confirmed, such a rage, such a jealousy would seize upon the rivals that they would steal off at dead of night and make away with these divine works, or write over the Anne or Jane on the title-page an emphatic George or John." (34)

The first edition passage omits the elaborate thought-experiment entirely, even the introductory repetition of the looking-glass metaphor. Instead of Woolf's ringing mockery and vibrant imagery, we are treated to a small, dry biscuit of a conclusion regarding the consequences of men's sense of superiority over women: "they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is thus that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance, which have had such profound consequences in public life and lead to such curious notes in the margin of the private mind" (50 [36]). This relatively arid generalization (35) pales in comparison to the proof copy, and continues Woolf's editorial program of muffling the attack on men's narcissism that we saw in the Czar and Kaiser passage.

The "profound public consequences" of the patriarchy's sense of superiority, dramatized so vividly in the proof copy's deleted "tribe of women" passage, is a subject to which Woolf returns forcefully in the book's final chapter. Looking out of her window at the London streets, she is struck by how isolated and indifferent everyone seems to each other, and certainly to Antony and Cleopatra, which Woolf regarded as Shakespeare's supreme expression of the androgynous creativity, of which he was master. But when a young man and woman and a taxi happen to converge, and the man and woman share the taxi and ride off, Woolf is cheered: "For certainly when I saw the couple get into the taxicab the mind felt as if, after being divided, it had come together again in a natural fusion" (135-36 [96]). (36) Unfortunately, such moments are exceptional. Woolf realizes that the mind seems inherently riven by competing desires, a fragmenting process that alienates people from themselves and each other.

Though the work of certain writers, like Coleridge, possesses an androgynous sensibility that heals and unifies the mind, the work of contemporary male writers reflects the hyper-masculinization of English culture. Woolf cites the example of "Mr. A,"37 whose talents she admires, but the explicit sexuality of whose writing she finds boringly representative of the "self-assertive virility" that she had said was beginning to contaminate British literature (he is "in the prime of life," she dryly observes). But, typically, Woolf backs away from the proof copy's mocking, ironic attack on male presumption. These passages were incorporated into the proof text largely as they appear in the Monks House typescript, but Woolf's willingness to stand by them until the very last moment shows how concerned she was by how they might be exploited by her critics. The first of the important passages about Mr. A to be emended reads: "But why was I bored? Partly because of the dominance of the letter 'I' and the aridity, which, like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade. Nothing will grow there. That, however, is all Lady Bessborough's fault. Lady Bessborough with her passion for politics always pretended that the Napoleonic wars were not half so important as Lord Granville's maiden speech. Naturally, he believed her, and when he comes to write (for Mr. A descends from Lord Granville, just as Mary Carmichael descends from Lady Winchilsea) his pen forms the letter 'I' by instinct. And then, of course, he descends from Oscar Browning, who found the stupidest man more intelligent than the cleverest woman; so that when he comes to write about women he has nothing of great interest to say about them; but simplifies them and cannot put a bone in their bodies. And then I continued, remembering the lunch party at Oxbridge" (Proof, 152). (38)

Just as Woolf ironically blamed the reformers "Miss Davies and Miss Clough" for the hostility of Britain's nineteenth-century patriarchy, she now ironically blames the devoted, supremely capable, self-effacing Lady Bessborough, not only for her husband Lord Granville's narcissism, but for the strutting egotism of Mr. A, who is, after all, the "descendant" of the narcissistic Lord Granville and the misogynist Cambridge educator Oscar Browning. Perhaps, too, Woolf may have felt that, indeed, Lady Bessborough at least enabled (as we would say today) her husband's narcissism by deferring so abjectly to him, and that such deference by bright, talented women like Lady Bessborough contributed to the flourishing of the British patriarchy's self-regard. But the passage's irony reads as the more dominant meaning, especially considering the sentiment she ascribes to Oscar Browning, "who found the stupidest man more intelligent than the cleverest woman." Woolf, accordingly, not wishing to be caricatured as a feminist harridan, uprooted yet another nettle bush of mockery and replaced it with a skillfully trimmed topiary: "But why was I bored? Partly because of the dominance of the letter 'I' and the aridity, which, like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade. Nothing will grow there. And partly for some obscure reason. There seemed to be some obstacle, some impediment in Mr. A's mind which blocked the fountain of creative energy and shored it within narrow limits. And remembering the lunch party at Oxbridge" (139-40 [99]).

Woolf continues her ironic taunting of the patriarchy in the proof text, as she focuses more explicitly on Mr. A's obsession with sex. She introduces the subject by referring to the tiresome way in which Mr. A repeatedly describes acts of sexual intercourse: "Over and over (I said turning the pages) and over again. And that, I added, aware of the awful nature of the confession, which proved me cold as ice and old as the hills, seems somehow dull" (153). The first edition, we are indebted to Mark Hussey for observing, omits the "cold" and "old" phrase. Woolf sacrificed an effective, drily ironic, self-deprecating phrase out of the very fear of attack by hostile, literal-minded critics which the phrase had been created to repulse: that she was a frigid crone whose point of view could be dismissed without consideration. As she delves further, in the proof text, into the subject of male writers' interest in and depictions of sexual acts, she again employs the redoubtable Clough and Davies: "Shakespeare's indecency uproots a thousand other things in one's mind, and is far from being dull. But Shakespeare does it for pleasure; Mr. A, as the nurses say, does it on purpose. But it is not Mr. A's fault, I said, skipping through the rest of the book; it is the fault of Miss Clough and Miss Emily Davies. When Miss Clough and Miss Emily Davies said that girls had brains and must be allowed to use them, Mr. A's grandfather said on the contrary they have but two desires, to serve men and to minister to their needs; and Mr. A (who descends, of course, from his grandfather) puts his grandfather's teaching very piously into practice. It is partly in protest against Miss Clough and Miss Davies that he does it, again and again, and attaches what would otherwise seem to be disproportionate importance to the physical act which Shakespeare, who had not known Miss Clough and Miss Davies, lumps up together with a thousand other states of mind and makes poetry of. [paragraph] What, then, one must begin to fear, I thought, and glancing at a critic, and then at a biographer, and then at a poet, all well known and young and brilliant, is that virility has now become self-conscious--men, that is to say, are now writing only with the male side of their brains" (Proof, 153-54). (39) The first edition rendition of this highly charged passage is much more circumspect (see Appendix for the heavily emended first edition passage).

Woolf then even goes so far as to criticize by name two of the most beloved English novelists of her day, John Galsworthy and Rudyard Kipling. In the proof copy, she uses the familiar technique of pretending to fault women for the flaw she is about to lament or laugh at in men. In this case, she says it must be women's fault that they cannot appreciate some of Galsworthy's and Kipling's novels. Perhaps she was sincere when she wrote that these novels comprise "some of the finest works of our greatest living writers." But her main point, as she writes in the proof text, is that these novels "fail in suggestive power." The passage reads: "All this is one's own fault, no doubt, or the fault of one's sex; but it is a thousand pities, for it means that some of the finest works of our greatest living writers, the Forsyte Saga and the works of Mr. Kipling, for instance, are not appreciated by women. They fail in suggestive power. It is not only that they celebrate male virtues, enforce male values and describe the world of men;" (Proof, 155). The first edition passage, however, omits the sarcastic phrase that faults women for not being able to appreciate those novels: "But whatever the reason may be, it is a fact that one must deplore. For it means--here I had come to rows of books by Mr. Galsworthy and Mr. Kipling--that some of the finest works of our greatest living writers fall upon deaf ears. Do what she will a woman cannot find in them that fountain of perpetual life which the critics assure her is there. It is not only that they celebrate male virtues," (142 [100]). Then, in considering the overwrought, grandiose sympathy as well as the predictability with which Galsworthy constructs the incidents that will culminate in the death of the elder Jolyon (The Forsyte Saga), Woolf confesses, in the proof copy, that what so moves men's emotions in this treatment will drive women to laugh among the gooseberry bushes before its culmination: "But one will rush away before that happens and hide in the gooseberry bushes, for the emotion which is so deep, so supple, so symbolical to a man moves a woman to laughter" (Proof, 156). But "laughter" implies mockery, and mockery implies anger. Accordingly, Woolf emended the text so that in the first edition "laughter" is replaced by "wonder" (142 [101]), which not only blunts the emotional force of the passage but even mangles its sense. One might run away and hide in the bushes (metaphorically speaking) so that the comical man will not be offended by one's laughter; one need not run away and hide in the bushes to camouflage one's astonishment.

Even as Woolf's argument reaches its culmination against the "unmitigated masculinity" that characterizes British culture and politics her emendation of the proof text reveals her fear of being seen as too harsh a judge of this phenomenon. In the realm of British letters she sees foreshadowed "an age to come of pure, of self-assertive virility," 40 which is already flourishing in Fascist Italy and in its perverse forms of literature. Fascism is a form of social and political organization the spirit of which Woolf would have recognized from her familiarity with Britain's institutionalized misogyny. The first edition passage does condemn the domination of culture by the masculine sensibility: "For one can hardly fail to be impressed in Rome by the sense of unmitigated masculinity; and whatever the value of unmitigated masculinity upon the state, one may question the effect of it upon the art of poetry. At any rate, according to the newspapers, there is a certain anxiety about fiction in Italy" (143 [101]). But this is a much milder and more narrowly focused condemnation of the masculine spirit animating Italian Fascism than Woolf presents in the proof copy passage. There, she describes in dramatic, mocking detail the sweeping scope of oppressive regulations that have been imposed on even the most benign aspects of daily life and of the adolescent aggression that has taken over the public square.

Fascism, she recognizes, is no more than an extreme expression of the male need to dominate and control, a need which emerges out of the male yearning for security and fear of death. All of this expresses itself in the worship of a god-like, father-figure warrior and in playing soldier. Thus, escapist warrior fantasies and political oppression are transformed into socially acceptable "manly ideals," glorifying so absurd an activity as "grown men in black shirts wheeling and turning in response to the shouts of officers." The entire indictment reads: "For one can hardly fail to be impressed in Rome by the sense of unmitigated masculinity; by the network of regulations--one must not put one's foot there, one must not take off one's coat here. On every little grocer's shop there is stamped the head of a man whom one is invited to wish to live for ever [i.e., Mussolini]. And not a blank wall is without its poster celebrating the triumph of some General; and not a courtyard is without its grown men in black shirts wheeling and turning in response to the shouts of officers. But the military side of it is beyond our purview; what effect has all this drumming and trampling, this trumpeting of manly ideals upon the art of poetry? Well, according to the newspapers, there is a certain anxiety about fiction in Italy. There has been a meeting of academicians" (Proof, 157). (41)

The proof copy passage strongly implies that the inevitable consequence of the hyper-virilization of culture and politics is a police state run by Il Duce or his equivalent. But in the first edition, Woolf omitted the specific examples of the Fascists' pathetically juvenile, rampant masculinity, and her ridiculing of Mussolini's crude attempts at self-aggrandizement. What she has given us instead is much more circumspect, bloodless, and cool: "whatever the value of unmitigated masculinity upon the state, one may question the effect of it upon the art of poetry." These lines could have been written by one of the supercilious male professors whom Woolf mocks throughout the book. Even the conversational "Well" has been replaced by the more formal "At any rate." Astonishingly, Woolf then says in the first edition, "All this" is at least as much the fault of women--of women reformers in particular--as of men. But, perhaps, it is not so astonishing to the reader who has read only the first edition passage, in which "all this" has been reduced to the relatively tepid abstraction "unmitigated masculinity." The first edition's "blame" passage reads: "The Fascist poem, one may fear, will be a horrid little abortion such as one sees in a glass jar [...] Two heads on one body do not make for length of life. [paragraph] However, the blame for all this, if one is anxious to lay blame, rests no more on one sex than another. All seducers and reformers are responsible; Lady Bessborough when she lied to Lord Granville; Miss Davies when she told the truth to Mr. Greg. All who have brought about a state of sex-consciousness are to blame, and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age, before Miss Davies and Miss Clough were born, when the writer used both sides of his mind equally" (143-44 [102]).

The proof copy text, however, uses an ironically exaggerated attack on women reformers alone in order to make it clear that, in fact, only men are at fault: "The Fascist poem, one may fear, will be a horrid little abortion such as one sees in a glass jar [.] Two heads on one body or two bodies without a head do not make for length of life. [paragraph] However, the fault for all this rests with women, of course, for had they stayed shut up in their sitting-rooms embroidering bags, or now and again taking a walk on the leads and looking at the view, the other sex would not have had to assert its virility. The blame for all this cock-a-doodling is to be laid, strange though it may seem, to the charge of certain very small demure women, who issued sometime about 1850 from obscure parsonages and middle-class homes in the English provinces: Miss Clough, Miss Leigh Smith, Miss Emily Davies. It is entirely their fault that English literature is infected with cock-a-doodle-dum; and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch all my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age, before Miss Davies and Miss Clough were born, when the writer used both sides of his mind equally" (Proof, 158).

Woolf has, first of all, omitted from the first edition the second of the two outlandishly gruesome fetus images, metaphors of the misshapen poems that she foresees as Fascism's literary legacy. The omission is in keeping with the strategy behind most of Woolf's emendations, which is to remove or soften the proof text's jagged edges of vehement personal expression, especially anger. In both the proof and first edition passages, the fetus metaphor is followed by Woolf identifying the culprits--those who are responsible for the grotesque "abortions" and for the hypermasculine culture that has contaminated British letters and dominates Italy. But those whom she identifies in the first edition are different from those identified in the proof copy text. In the first edition, she assigns blame with serene evenhandedness, even sniffily suggesting that she is too high-minded to indulge in blaming at all. But, if she must, "if one is anxious to lay blame," then she will blame men and women alike, since "All seducers and reformers are responsible," "All who have brought about a state of sex-consciousness are to blame." The male gender is not even explicitly mentioned, and the only two "seducers and reformers" whom she mentions by name are women. On reading such a passage, the phrase "blaming the victim" inevitably comes to mind. Should women, one wants to ask Woolf, have refrained from organizing politically and fighting for the right to own property and to vote? It is one thing to say that transcending the personal is essential for the creation of great art, or even that great art cannot be created if an artist's primary intentions are moralistic or didactic; it is another to say that an artist may not as a human being respond politically to injustice.

The proof copy passage, however, faults men alone (Woolf uses the word "fault" instead of the first edition's "blame") for "all this," though with an irony that pretends to fault women. Women are at fault for "all this" (which, let us remember, includes Fascism) because they dared to leave their sitting rooms. The sight of unaccompanied women walking about Britain's towns and countryside so enraged the late nineteenth-century patriarchy that it was compelled "to assert its virility." Note also that the irony of this passage is darkened by its juxtaposition with the image of the aborted, monstrous fetuses. Woolf may have intended the extended passage, as it appears in the proof copy, to elicit the specter of rape, which, if resulting in a pregnancy, might have motivated the woman to seek an abortion. In any case, Woolf certainly is blaming, not absolving, the patriarchy for having attacked the "very small demure" women's rights activists and theoreticians Emily Davies (1830-1921) and Anne Jemima Clough (1820-1892). (42) One of the central propositions in A Room is that men oppress women because they feel compelled to maintain their sense of superiority. The "self-assertive virility" that has manifested itself so recently in the works written by British men is merely an instance of this reaction. Davies and Clough, eminently middle-class and unthreatening, were regarded by men as a threat only because they dared to write and organize politically for women's rights. "It is entirely their [Davies and Clough] fault," Woolf ironically concludes, "that English literature is infected with cock-a-doodle-dum," by which she means, of course, that it is not their fault at all.

But Woolf's ironic argument is hedged with complications. For she is sincere when she says that in order to find an uninfected male author she must go back to "that happy age, before Miss Davies and Miss Clough were born, when the writer used both sides of his mind equally." Who are the writers who successfully employed the female as well as the male aspects of their consciousness?: "One must turn back to Shakespeare then, for Shakespeare was androgynous; and so were Keats and Sterne and Cowper and Lamb and Coleridge. Shelley perhaps was sexless. Milton and Ben Jonson had a dash too much of the male in them. So had Wordsworth and Tolstoi. In our time Proust was wholly androgynous, if not perhaps a little too much of a woman [...]" (144 [102]). Here, again, in the continuation of this passage, Woolf altered the proof text in order to soften her condemnation of men and the masculine sensibility. (Her observation about Shelley is also an emendation that she made to the proof copy, which does not mention him.) The first edition reads: "But that failing is too rare for one to complain of it, since without some mixture of the kind the intellect seems to predominate and the other faculties of the mind harden and become barren" (ibid.). The intellect, she explicitly states, plays a role in literary composition, only it must be part of "some mixture" with the female aspect of consciousness. However, the proof copy passage reads: "But that failing is too rare for one to complain of it, since without that quality books are airless and sterile." The first edition passage subtly, but significantly, shifts Woolf's emphasis. Though the proof copy passage implies that the male aspect of consciousness is important--indeed, Woolf stated this explicitly a little earlier (43) and is about to say it again, (44) prescribing androgyny as the writer's ideal creative state--here, in a passage that follows on the heels of her ironic attack on male "cockle-doodle-dum," she does not explicitly mention the intellect (the so-called masculine domain). In the proof copy, the feminine "quality" is given credit for saving literature from sterility. But in the first edition passage, Woolf takes a more explicitly balanced approach, saying that the artist's consciousness must contain "some mixture" of the masculine and the feminine. The change, especially read in the context of the proof and first edition passages that preceded it, probably reflects, at least in part, an attempt to ensure that her argument will not be misunderstood, or misrepresented, as a feminist's assertion of female superiority.

This change and others like it also reflect a concern as important to Woolf as women's rights and is linked to it: the proper understanding of what comprises literary creativity. For her, the privacy and quiet of a room of one's own, as well as the freedom to travel near and far, and the financial independence that these entail are important for women writers not just so that they may write at all, but so that they may have a chance to write well. (45) And one of the necessary conditions for writing well, in Woolf's view, for becoming a true artist, is the ability to look at "the thing itself," which is possible only if the writer's vision is not distorted by anger or resentment, however justified. When, in Chapter 5, Woolf critiques a lesbian-themed novel, "Life S Adventure," by a young, contemporary writer, "Mary Carmichael," she observes admiringly that in Carmichael "Fear and hatred [of men] were almost gone" (129 [91]). But transcendence of even this impressive measure is insufficient. Woolf insists that the writers' very consciousness of her (or his) gender, at least in the process of writing, must disappear. This is why she considers it most promising that Carmichael "had--I began to think--mastered the first great lesson; she wrote as a woman, but as a woman who has forgotten that she is a woman" (129 [91]). Woolf elaborates on this idea toward the end of the chapter: "It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly. It is fatal for a woman to lay the least stress on any grievance; to plead even with justice any cause; in any way to speak consciously as a woman. And fatal is no figure of speech; for anything written with that conscious bias is doomed to death. It ceases to be fertilized" (145 [103]).

As Woolf weighs the strengths and weaknesses of Carmichael's novel, she advises her young contemporary to explore what is uniquely a woman's experience of life, to "illumine your own soul with its profundities and shallows, [.] and what is your relation to the everchanging and turning world of gloves and shoes and stuffs" (125 [88]). Such scenes, Woolf asserts, are as worthy of "the pen" as tales of adventure, and a shop girl's story is at least as interesting as the 150th life of Napoleon or a book on "Keats and his use of Miltonic inversion which old Thing-em-a-bob and his like are now inditing" (Proof, 137). But Woolf must have worried that she had gone too far in her mockery of the academic patriarchy because the first edition passage reads: "Keats and his use of Miltonic inversion which old Professor Z and his like are now inditing" (126 [89]).

Woolf similarly pulls back from an acerbic criticism of men in one of the most famous passages in A Room. In Woolf's view, what Carmichael must learn to do above all, is "to learn to laugh, without bitterness, at the vanities--say rather at the peculiarities, for it is a less offensive word--of the other sex. For there is a spot the size of a shilling at the back of the head which one can never see for oneself. It is one of the good offices that sex can discharge for sex--to describe that spot the size of a shilling at the back of the head. Think how much women have profited by the comments of Juvenal; by the criticism of Strindberg. Think with what humanity and brilliancy men, from the earliest ages, have pointed out to women that dark place at the back of the head!" (126 [89]). Any male reader attempting to grab this bouquet of conciliation will find that he has pierced his hand on a skillfully placed thorn. Woolf is serious when she speaks of the service that one gender can perform for another. The metaphor of a spot at the back of the head that can be seen only by a person of the other gender harmonizes with the culmination of Woolf's androgyny argument. But Woolf pointedly reminds her readers that men have not been women's helpmates, by citing the example of the misogynistic Juvenal (46) and Strindberg.

In the context of A Room as a whole it would have been clear enough that Woolf's reference to the "humanity and brilliancy" demonstrated by men in showing women their blind spots is acidly ironic. But this is all the more stingingly evident in the wake of these references. The proof copy passage, however, bears yet another thorn, which Woolf clipped off before transferring the passage into the first edition. The unemended portion of the proof passage reads: "Think how with what humanity and brilliancy men, from the earliest ages, have pointed out to women their faults!" (Proof, 137). Here, Woolf momentarily forsakes irony in regard to men's aims and does not even try to pretend that they have fulfilled their role as helpmates to women. Pointing out to a friend or spouse a fault that he or she may have (and since Juvenal and Strindberg are identified as the typical men who do this for women, Woolf probably thought that most men should say nothing to women about their presumed faults) is very different from helping him or her learn a truth about himself/herself that s/he cannot see unaided. But this harshly honest assessment is present only in the proof text. For the first edition version of the passage, Woolf yet again softened her attack on male presumption and arrogance.

Later in her critique of Carmichael's novel, Woolf praises the young novelist for not being a mere "skimmer of surfaces." In the proof copy, Woolf's evidence for this is that Carmichael "had been scattering her pages with forethought" (Proof, 141). But the first edition reads, "had looked beneath into the depths" (130 [92]). The balance of the passage flows more naturally from the proof copy text, since Woolf is praising Carmichael for summoning to the reader's memory "half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things in other chapters dropped by the way." Why did Woolf emend the proof copy passage? Though Woolf is not shy about pointing out Carmichael's faults, and even doubts if she has "staying power," she did not want her praise of Carmichael's strengths to be vulnerable to misinterpretation by male critics as stereotypical female traits. The phrase "scattering her pages with forethoughts" calls up an image that an unsympathetic reader might regard as too whimsically feminine and unserious. (47) No one can pretend, however, that looking beneath the depths is not the sign of a serious novelist, regardless of gender.

Woolf's apprehensiveness about possible attacks by hostile male critics on her description of Carmichael's writing recurs only a page later. Woolf chastises Carmichael for breaking up "Jane Austen's sentence," but then tempers her criticism: "Perhaps she had done this unconsciously, merely giving things their natural order, as they came in her mind, as a woman would, if she wrote like a woman" (Proof, 138-39). The first edition rendering of the passage, however, omits the phrase "as they came to her mind," so that the phrase reads "merely giving things their natural order, as a woman would, if she wrote like a woman" (127 [90]). The phrase "natural order" could be taken to mean the most commonly assumed, even "reasonable" order, in which the relationship of ideas or observations is most easily understood. However, when the phrase is paired with "as they came in her mind," as in the proof copy, an unsympathetic reader might choose to read this as Woolf admitting that a woman's mind is a hodge-podge of thoughts and emotions, not capable of bringing order to the unruly process of creation.

Woolf's emendation of this passage, however minor it may at first seem, is significant and even poignant, since one of her chief contributions to literary modernism is the artistic depiction of the mind in its moment-to-moment reactions to the world and to its own memories. Her novels and short stories illustrate that, indeed, everyone's mind is a hodge-podge of thoughts and emotions. The proof copy sentence asserts that a woman author would be better able than a man (pace James Joyce) to be aware of and acknowledge that we cannot control what happens to us, and certainly not what goes on in our minds, and to incorporate this insight into her fiction. That Woolf would be willing to eviscerate from this passage (perhaps unconsciously, like the fictional Carmichael) what might be considered the heart of her "teaching" shows the extent to which she feared saying what she meant in the way she meant to say it, whether, as in this case, it might be caricatured as vagueness, or as unjustified rancor. The specter of the hostile male critic, tensed and waiting to pounce on even the passing shadow of female sensibility, haunts all of these tamed passages.

Although Woolf's praise and admonition of Mary Carmichael and other young women authors bear the marks of this anxiety, Woolf left intact the semi-fictional narrative structure of the proof text, though not always the passages which themselves so effectively embody the literary insights that the narrator ostensibly discovers as her narrative unfolds. The best of these appear in the first chapter, and include what is probably the book's most famous scene; it also contains one of the few passages in which Woolf emended the proof copy text to enhance, rather than delete or muffle, a novelistic effect. Having lunched sumptuously at one of Oxbridge's wealthy male colleges, Woolf moves to a window seat, lights a cigarette, and, when she needs to knock off the ash, chances to glance out the window into the quadrangle below, where she notices a tailless Manx cat. The odd looking animal arrests her attention and then "changed by some fluke of the subconscious intelligence the emotional light for me" (15 [11]).

It seems to Woolf that the hesitant cat, like herself, "questioned the universe," and she suddenly realizes that an essential quality of these luncheons has changed since the war: "Everything was different." Before the war, the tone of the conversation between men and women was infused with the sensibility of Tennyson's and Christina Rossetti's romantic, idealizing poetry. Their vanished world seems to her so comically romanticized that she laughs, and then must explain her laughter (to a passerby?) by pointing at the cat. She wonders, apparently to herself, "Was he really born so, or had he lost his tail in an accident?" The "truncated animal," so odd looking and out of place on the quadrangle lawn may also remind her of herself, a creature out of place in patriarchal Oxbridge. Perhaps it represents, too, all women (though it is a "he"), an alien presence in the world of art, learning, and power. Regardless, the narrator's reaction to the cat has sparked in her an awareness of the shift in British sensibility from the idealizing world of Tennyson and Rossetti to that of her own day.

The balance of the narrator's remarks about the cat in the first edition reads: "The tailless cat, though some are said to exist in the Isle of Man, is rarer than one thinks. It is a queer animal, quaint, rather than beautiful. It is strange what a difference a tail makes. You know, the sort of thing one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats" (17 [13]). On reading the last sentence, we realize with a start that the previous lines, which we thought were a continuation of the narrator's internal monologue, were actually spoken aloud by the narrator to a luncheon companion. One of the revolutionary changes that Woolf, along with Joyce and Eliot, brought to literature is the imaginative recreation of an intensified awareness of the mind's contents and of the degree to which the mind creates our experience of the world. This awareness permeates the barrier that we usually suppose divides "interior" from "exterior" and the observing narrator from the observed character. When the reader realizes, in the Manx cat scene, that what s/he thought had been occurring in the mind of the narrator was actually occurring in the "outside" world, as an exchange between the narrator and an interlocutor, s/he realizes that the narrator regards the distinction between inner and outer as a mere psychological convention (the length of time that the narrator has been in conversation is unclear and unimportant), since everything that the narrator experiences is, essentially, the result of an interior process.

The scene is a tour-de-force because Woolf has embodied in her style the very shift in sensibility about which she is writing. She has joined her subject--how she became aware of a change in English sensibility, a change which she now realizes has had a profound effect on her as a writer and on her peers (those whom we call modernists)--to her style, in perfect marriage. What makes the technique of space (and to an extent, time) displacement work so well is Woolf's creation of the illusion that we are reading the narrator's unspoken thoughts until we are jolted into awareness of the contrary by "you know, the sort of thing one says." But without the Sybil-like musing "it is strange what a difference a tail makes," the magical spell could not have been so effectively cast. In fact, the proof copy does not contain this wonderfully allusive phrase. Rather, it reads, "The tailless cat, though some are said to exist in the Isle of Man, is rarer than one thinks. It is a queer animal, quaint, rather than beautiful. You know, the kind of thing one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats" (Proof, 20). As the proof copy stood, we would not have been as thoroughly seduced as we are in the first edition into assuming that we are listening to the narrator's internal voice.

Woolf's enhancement of this scene and her shaping of its expression to embody its sense make all the more curious an emendation that she made to a proof copy passage only two pages later, when she explicitly addressed the subject of the differences between nineteenth-century and contemporary poetry. Though Rossetti's and Tennyson's romantic poetry made her laugh when she recalled it at an Oxbridge luncheon, after she has left the college and walks through the campus quadrangles she is overwhelmed with those poets' rapturous power and admits that no poet of her own day could match them. Tennyson's and Rossetti's poetry excites us because "it celebrates some feeling that one used to have," and, because of this familiarity, one accepts it "without troubling to check the feeling or compare it with any that one has now. But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at this very moment." The proof copy text continues: "One does not recognize it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; that one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with what is being born in one at the moment. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry" (Proof, 22).

The use of "that" syntactically implies the following expanded reading: we so fear the feeling, or state of being, that contemporary poetry ascribes to us that we watch it suspiciously and compare it with our moment-to-moment psychological states. That is, we jealously wish to hold onto the old sensibility, to the comfort of the known, by suspiciously trying to detect an error in the new poetry's representation of ourselves. We jealously observe it (jealous, because it will steal our old feeling), hoping that we will find it contradicted as we compare it to "what is being born in one at the moment." But Woolf's extraordinary analysis penetrates into even deeper levels of motivation. The new poets have not just torn out and displayed their "feeling" (their experience of what it means to be human when traditional authorities have been rejected), which we are loath to admit is ours as well. In the act of showing us their raw sensibility, they have "made" it, created it, in us, in the sense that they have forced us to recognize that the feeling that they have torn from themselves, has in fact, been torn from us as well. It had been living in us all along; only we were not aware of it till the "living poets" showed it to us.

But this lapidary passage, so densely packed with psycho-literary insight, has yet another level of complexity encoded in it. The phrase "what is being born in one at the moment," may indeed be read as referring to our moment-to-moment existence; that is, what it is like for us moment by moment to be in relationship with others, with our own consciousness, with the world. Yet the syntax and logic of the sentence in which it appears also allows for a different referent for that phrase. Woolf may have been referring to our moment-to-moment reaction to the new poetry itself. It has awakened in us an awareness that the poet's strange feeling has been torn from our psyche as well as his. But our awareness, our recognition that the feeling that is in him is in us, may be confined to our interaction with the poetry, or more generally, imaginative literature. This would imply an eternal, solipsistic cycle, in which we are continuously reacting to our reactions, racing along the interior of the walls which literature has built around the psyche, unable to break out and touch "the thing itself." These are ideas to which Woolf could have devoted an entire essay, but exploring them was not the purpose of A Room. When she had added "it is strange what a difference a tail makes" to her reaction to the sight of the Manx, she indeed complicated and enriched the passage by marrying her subject to her "in the moment" style. But this is a very different kind of enterprise than an intellectual exposition of an argument.

Contemplating the implications of the proof copy's "what is being born in one at the moment" and the abyss of analytical and interpretive complexity that opened before her, Woolf prudently pulled back from the edge and emended the passage. The first edition version of the passage reads: "But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at this very moment. One does not recognize it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with the old feeling that one knew. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry" (19 [14]). The emendation simplifies Woolf's explication of the cause and effect of our reaction to modern poetry, reducing it to an awareness of the difference between the present and the past. That is, we compare our old sense of what we and the world were (say, Rossetti's and Tennyson's sensibility) to what we feel when we are compelled by contemporary poets (T. S. Eliot, perhaps) to look at ourselves and the world. We are fearful and suspicious because it pains us to give up the comfort and security of familiar feelings. This much was in the proof passage. What Woolf has eliminated is her allusion to an even deeper psychological dynamic in the mind's interaction with contemporary poetry. But confining the analysis of that interplay to a matter of contrasting past and present had the added advantage of reinforcing the essential point that Woolf wished to make in the luncheon scene and its aftermath; the contrast of past and present. England had changed irrevocably. The war, and perhaps other forces, had seen to that. Among their victims was a casualty which we should not lament--the death of the idealizing habit. Even in bastions of male privilege like Oxbridge, the resident men and visiting women can no longer recognize themselves in Rossetti's "My heart is gladder than all these / Because my love is come to me." Inevitably, therefore, contemporary authors and poets had to find a new way to express this new awareness.

Past versus present--a simplification, but hardly simple. The dichotomous rubric, in fact, encompasses most of the topics that Woolf courageously faces throughout the book, which include the construction of socio-cultural attitudes toward gender, literary creativity, higher education, political power, money, and class. All of these forces, she persuasively shows, had an effect on women's fate as writers. She was probably the only writer of her day who could have so honestly (in both the intellectual and emotional sense), forcefully, and elegantly advanced so complex an "argument" (in the most general sense of the word) both through polemical exposition and a pioneering narrative technique borrowed from her fiction. In fact, she did not so much wish to make an argument as to tell a story. In the book's first paragraph, maintaining the illusion that she is speaking to the students of Fernham she observes, "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."

Despite Woolf's repeated exhortations to women that they get a room of their own in which to write, she realized that this message was unintelligible to anyone who had not reflected on the history of women in Britain over the past few centuries, who had not recreated, at least in imagination, some of those women's lives. Woolf, therefore, told these stories of past and present, of herself and others. Inevitably, she did so in a way that expressed her mind's unique combination of powers: preternaturally intelligent and sensitive, aware of even its most subtle movements; delighting in nuanced analysis and in allusive and elliptical narrative; and which from a height could spy the merest twitch of deflected desire or hypocrisy, and descend on it with tearing beak and talons. One of the most satisfying pleasures of the proof copy is the way in which these powers are borne aloft by the vehemence of the narrator's emotions, by her cold fury and hilarity at men's obtuse self-regard, which she transmutes not into "impersonal" observation, but the most corrosive, mocking irony. Linked to this is the book's other great literary pleasure, more a presence in the proof text than the first edition: the embodiment of the content of Woolf's story in her stylistic approach to the narrative and even to analysis and argument.

Woolf does not explicitly link the two psycho-literary aptitudes which she prizes most highly: the ability "to express a feeling that is being made and torn out of us at the moment" and the ability to draw upon both the male and female aspects of consciousness. But implicit in her statements in A Room about literary creativity is her recognition that they exist in symbiotic relationship. Therefore, since most men seemed to be dedicated to the virilization of culture, it would be left to women, and to the enlightened male "living poets," to create an authentic literature in Britain. That Woolf's fear of the literary patriarchy compelled her to omit from the first edition, or admit only in modified form, expressions of what she would have identified in another writer as the "womanly" aspects of consciousness is the proof copy's painfully and perhaps frustratingly ironic lesson. Yet, we must also acknowledge that we have benefited from Woolf's emendations of this remarkable text. This is so not only because many of the emendations improve the style or clarify a point, but because even in those many passages which redirect or reverse an intention there pulses the dynamic energy of Woolf's perceptiveness, alive and sympathetic to different, even conflicting, facets of a story or argument. In this sense, the two texts complement each other, and perhaps, in the sympathetic and studious reader's mind, may find a consummation in a marriage of opposites, one of several for which Woolf yearned.

Works Cited

Woolf, Virginia. The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 3 1925-1930. Ed. Anne Olivier Bell, with the assistance of Andrew McNeillie. NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980.

--. A Room of One's Own. Proof Copy. 10--22 July 1929. R & R Clark for The Hogarth Press. Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature, New York Public Library.

--. A Room of One S Own. New York: The Fountain Press, 1929. [Kirkpatrick A12a]

--. A Room of One's Own. London: The Hogarth Press, 1929. [Kirkpatrick A12b]

----. A Room of One's Own. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1929. [Kirkpatrick A12c]

--. A Room of One S Own. Annotated and with an introduction by Susan Gubar. Orlando: Harcourt, 2005.

--. Women and Fiction. The Manuscript Versions of A Room of One's Own. Transcribed and edited by S. P. Rosenbaum. Oxford: Blackwell, 1992.

(1) Three editions were published in 1929. The first was printed by Robert S. Josephy and published in New York by the Fountain Press on October 21, 1929 (almost a year to the day after delivering the Newnham lecture), and in London by Woolf's own Hogarth Press on October 24. The press run comprised 492 numbered copies, of which 450 were for sale, each copy signed by Woolf, and the first 100 reserved for sale in Great Britain. The second edition, with title page showing that it was published solely by the Hogarth Press, was issued on October 24, and is the first exclusively British edition, in effect a trade edition, printed in 3040 copies, and reprinted in the second through fifth impressions in November-December 1929, with the fifth appearing in March 1930 (each of these impressions being printed in approximately the same number of copies as the first). The third edition constitutes the first American trade edition and was published in New York by Harcourt, Brace and Co. on October 24 1929 in 4000 copies. See B. J. Kirkpatrick, A Bibliography of Virginia Woolf, Third Edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980) which contains a complete and detailed account of the book's printing history.

(2) To see the record in the NYPL catalog (http://catalog.nypl.org/), the most straightforward option is to search by title.

(3) Girton was co-founded in 1869 by the suffragist Sarah Emily Davies and by the artist and women's rights activist Barbara Bodichon; Newnham was co-founded in 1871 by the suffragist Millicent Garrett Fawcett and the Cambridge philosopher Henry Sidgwick.

(4) I have not been able to find a reference in Woolf's diaries or letters to the date when she received the Girton invitation.

(5) From the account of lecture attendee Elsie Elizabeth Phare (b. 1908), a Newnham student, and in 1928 the secretary of the Arts Society, as cited by S. P. Rosenbaum (xv).

(6) In the narrative portion of the essay, the two colleges are conflated into a single institution, Fernham, mirroring her conflation of Cambridge and Oxford into "Oxbridge." She wished to be clear that what she had to say about her experience at Cambridge should be understood as typifying the attitudes of Britain's educational and cultural establishment.

(7) The elided portion of the entry reads: "I fancy sometimes the world changes. I think I see reason spreading, but I should have liked closer & thicker knowledge of life. I should have liked to deal with real things sometimes. I get such a sense of tingling & vitality from an evening talk like that; one's angularities & obscurities are smoothed & lit. How little one counts, I think: how little anyone counts; how fast & furious & masterly life is; & how all these thousands are swimming for dear life."

(8) Page references are to the first (Fountain) edition unless otherwise noted. In brackets following this reference is the page number of the corresponding passage in the 2005 Harcourt paperback edition.

(9) The lecture from which this article grew, delivered at the New York Public Library's Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, Celeste Bartos South Court Auditorium in the Fall of 2010, was titled "When Is a Book As Good As a Manuscript?: The Proof Copy of A Room of One's Own," to reflect the presence of these numerous differences.

(10) See, for instance, p. 18, which may be an "x," with the check made in pen, and the diagonal cross line (making the "x") in pencil; and p. 20, which also contains what looks like an indecipherable word, but which may be a check mark over which a squiggle has been inscribed in black pen.

(11) Assuming that, as seems likely, the lectures differed at least somewhat from each other.

(12) The Forum (New York, March 1929, p. 179-183).

(13) But the placement of even a comma, as we know, can alter meaning, as in this example: Proof copy: p. 141-142: "half forgotten perhaps, quite trivial things" First ed: p. 130: "half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things" Consider also the replacement of a conjunction by a colon:

Proof Copy, p. 36: "of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets and of the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space."

First ed., p. 32: "of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets: the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space."

The colon helps emphasize that good tobacco and drink, and deep arm-chairs, i.e., the physical goods that wealth affords, are signifiers of the presence of urbanity, geniality, and dignity, which are born of luxury, privacy and space.

(14) At this point, I would be negligent if I did not thank Mark Hussey, the Editor of Woolf Studies Annual, whose efforts, over and above those usually afforded by an editor, greatly enhanced the accuracy and completeness of the Appendix. His checking of the emendations listed in the Appendix against the proof copy, as well as against the Hogarth edition of October 24 and the Harcourt, Brace edition of the same date, allowed him to correct my errors and omissions.

(15) This uncertainty makes it important that the Monks House typescript be digitized and fully transcribed, and that the differences between the typescript and the first edition be identified and published. At the very least, I hope that my Appendix will be annotated by a careful scholar who has access to the typescript, and that s/he will indicate which of the proof text passages that I have identified as differing from the first edition reflect a revision of the typescript, and which of the proof text passages that I have identified as differing from the first edition passed into the proof copy unchanged. I intend to publish the Appendix on the New York Public Library website so that researchers who do not read Woolf Studies Annual may have access to the Appendix, and so that all researchers will benefit from the ease of working with an electronic document.

(16) For instance, when the narrator critiques the novel of a young, contemporary author named "Mary Carmichael," she is more frank and expansive in the proof copy than in the emended first edition text about her inability to say exactly what aspects of an author's writing she likes before she has finished reading one of the author's works (p. 127): "and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style--I know not what--(one must wait till the end to name these things); if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure, if she has five hundred a year of her own--" etc. The first edition text omits the bolded phrase (p. 117): "and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style; if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure; if she has five hundred a year of her own--" etc.

(17) But we should always be cautious about distinguishing too categorically between style and content, the relationship of which is a subject that has inspired systematic study, rigorous theorizing, and fierce polemics in the West from Cicero to the most formidably learned Renaissance humanists, including Leonardo Bruni, Lefevre d'Etaples, and Erasmus. Woolf herself alludes in A Room to the difficulty of disentangling style from content when she wonders why Thackeray wrote the way he did. Was the style natural to him or was he was striving for an effect?: "But then one would have to decide what is style and what is meaning, a question which--" (9). Here is a characteristic example of Woolf's highly sophisticated wit; a brief phrase that points allusively and elliptically to something profound in a way that illustrates itself.

(18) First published in the London literary journal Egoist (Sept. 1919),vol. VI, no. 4, 54-55, and later reprinted in Eliot's collection of essays The Sacred Wood (London: Methuen, 1920).

(19) "What genius, what integrity it must have required in face of all that criticism, in the midst of that purely patriarchal society, to hold fast to the thing as they saw it without shrinking. Only Jane Austen did it and Emily Bronte" (103).

(20) Mark Hussey's valuable emendation of the Appendix shows that the proof copy passage regarding Austen's state of mind, which follows this comparison to Shakespeare, differs from the first edition passage. The emendation is significant. The first edition (p. 94) reads: "But perhaps it was the nature of Jane Austen not to want what she had not." The proof copy (p. 103), however, gives a contrary explanation. It was not nature, but nurture: "But perhaps Jane Austen was so perfectly adapted that she never wanted what she had not." Woolf did not want to portray her heroine of impersonal creation, the writer who "had consumed all impediments," as being afflicted with the very weakness which Woolf says women must overcome: the desire to accommodate themselves to the patriarchy's sensibility and strictures.

[21] Woolf writes that in Bronte's portrait of Rochester and throughout Jane Eyre "we constantly feel an acidity which is the result of oppression, buried suffering smouldering beneath her passion, a rancour which contracts those books [...]" (102 [72]). But Mark Hussey notes that the proof copy (p. 111) does not contain the words "a rancour." The addition does not redirect Woolf's intent, but it does intensify it, reflecting perhaps Woolf's wish to emphasize the presence in Bronte of the disfiguring anger for which Woolf so harshly criticizes her.

[22] First ed., p. 106.The sentence reads: "'The grandeur of their works was an argument with them, not to stop short, but to proceed. They could have no higher excitement or satisfaction than in the exercise of their art and endless generations of truth and beauty. Success prompts to exertion; and habit facilitates success.'"

[23] Woolf's advocacy for what might be called a woman's style is not nullified by her argument in Chapter 5 that good literature can be created only by a mind that is androgynous, since in the woman the female sensibility predominates, and in the androgynous man, the male.

(24) The passage on Bronte's "awkward break" has been discussed a great deal in Woolf criticism. See, for example, Cora Kaplan, "Pandora's Box" Subjectivity, Class and Sexuality in Socialist-Feminist Criticism." British Feminist Thought, ed. Terry Lovell. (Cambridge, UK: Blackwell, 1990): 345-66; Jane Marcus, "Daughters of Anger/Material Girls: Con/ textualizing Feminist Criticism." Women's Studies 15 (1988): 281-308; Adrienne Rich, "When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision." On Lies, Secrets and Silence. Selected Prose 1966-1978 (NY: W. W. Norton, 1979): 33-49.

(25) Differences between the proof copy and first edition texts, in both the Appendix and in the body of this article, are indicated in bold.

(26) "'How she was able to effect all this', her nephew writes in his Memoir, 'is surprising, for she had no separate study to repair to, and most of the work must have been done in the general sitting-room, subject to all kinds of casual interruptions. She was careful that her occupation should not be suspected by servants or visitors or any persons beyond her own family party.'"

(27) The Monks House typescript contains a lengthy passage (Rosenbaum, 183-185) on the Crimean War and Florence Nightingale which Woolf omitted completely from the proof copy. She reintroduced Nightingale here, in the first edition, as a brief aside, and again alluded to the Crimean War and Nightingale in Chapter 6: "However, thanks to the toils of those obscure women in the past, of whom I wish we knew more, thanks, curiously enough to two wars, the Crimean which let Florence Nightingale out of her drawing-room, and the European War which opened the doors to the average woman some sixty years later, these evils are in the way to be bettered" (151).

(28) Woolf's concern for the way in which she has portrayed her own mental processes is revealed in even apparently minor emendations. In Chapter 5, objecting to the ways in which women's relationships have been described by male poets, playwrights, and novelists, she reviews them in her mind, "rapidly recalling the splendid gallery of fictitious women" (114). In the proof copy, she had written "vaguely recalling." But no "vague" woman she.

(29) "Why did men drink wine and women water? Why was one sex so prosperous and the other so poor? What effect has poverty on fiction? What conditions are necessary for the creation of works of art?" (34).

(30) Near the book's conclusion, Woolf reviews what she has written and prescribed for women with humility. The proof copy reads: "How to justify this instinct or belief I do not know, for, not having been educated at a university, I am incapable of using scientific words correctly" (169). But this must have seemed to her a bit too humble, because the first edition text reads: "How to justify this instinct or belief I do not know, for philosophic words, if one has not been educated at a university, are apt to play one false" (153).

(31) See the passage beginning "He was heavily built" and ending "not anger pure and simple" (42-44 [30-31]).

(32) This passage comprises a relatively minor example of Woolf attempting to efface the personal element from her text. The first edition passage reads : "Possibly they were not 'angry' at all; often, indeed, they were admiring, devoted, exemplary in the relations of private life" (47). The proof copy passage reads: "Possibly they were not 'angry' at all; often, indeed, they were admiring, devoted exemplary fathers and husbands in private life" (52).

(33) Other proof copy passages that convey dramatic action, or what might be called novelistic detail, were similarly omitted from the first edition. For instance, in Chapter 5, in Woolf's critique of "Mary Carmichael's" novel, Woolf expresses anxiety about Carmichael's ability to describe the "unrecorded gestures" and "unsaid or half-said words" which women exchange when men are not around, and women's changed behavior when men are present. In men's presence, Woolf writes in the proof copy (128), "women are so wary, so suspicious of any interest that has not some obvious motive behind it, [...] that they are off at the flicker of an eye turned observingly in their direction. Oh yes, he will be in in half an hour, they say, and sit down and talk about the weather. The only way for you to do it," etc. However, in the first edition (118), the passage reads: "for women are so suspicious of any interest that has not some obvious motive behind it, [...] that they are off at the flicker of an eye turned observingly in their direction. The only way for you to do it," etc. A bit later, when arguing that women's creative expression differs from men's, she writes in the proof copy (133): "But how different is this creative power from the creative power of men. [...] it would be a thousand pities if her creative power were hindered or wasted," etc. However, in the first edition, the dramatic, hortatory mode is exchanged for prosaic description: "But this creative power differs greatly from the creative power of men. [...] it would be a thousand pities if it were hindered or wasted," (122).

(34) Proof, 55. The Monks House typescript passage differs only incidentally from the proof copy. It begins: "<Perhaps> I thought, as I opened my purse, the looking glass theory" etc. (Rosenbaum 181).

(35) The phrase "margin of the private mind" creates a vivid image that embodies one of the chief innovations of Woolf's fiction--drawing the reader's attention as if by the way of a fragment of a thought or half remembered scene, the significance of which ripens as the novel unfolds. But the phrase alone does not match the powder of the descriptive passage it has replaced.

(36) This transformation of London from a confluence of indifferent, mechanized male energies, to a magical river alive with spontaneously formed eddies in which women and men are drawn together in natural sympathy, contrasts with an emendation that Woolf made to the proof text at the end of Chapter 2. Returning in the evening to her home, she is elated by London's transformation since the morning, when the city had appeared to her like an indifferent soulless machine. But now, with the lamps lit, it seems to her that the day's labor had produced "a few yards of something very exciting and beautiful--a fiery fabric flashing with red eyes, a tawny monster roaring with hot breath. Even the wind seemed flung like a flag as it lashed the houses and rattled the hoardings" (54). But Woolf had originally used a much more feminine image to indicate the city's transformation, one which had the added advantage of maintaining the textile metaphor: "It was as if the great machine after labouring all day had made with our help a few yards of something very exciting and beautiful--a fiery fabric flashing with red eyes, flaunting in the breeze. Even the wind seemed flung like a flag as it lashed the houses and rattled the hoardings" (Proof, 60). Note also the alliterative harmony maintained by the feminine "flaunting."

(37) Probably D. H. Lawrence, as many scholars have noted.

(38) The proof copy passage that Woolf omitted is nearly identical to the passage in the Monks House typescript, with these exceptions: in the Monks House typescript "I said" succeeds "That, however,"; "for Mr. A is the spiritual descendant of Lord Granville" is changed in the proof text to "Mr. A descends from Lord Granville"; and the Monks House "And then, I continued, he descends too from Oscar Browning," etc. is emended in the proof text to: "And then, of course, he descends from Oscar Browning," etc. (Rosenbaum 186).

(39) The Monks House typescript contains a biographical point omitted from the proof copy portrait of Mr. A's grandfather: he was "the anonymous gentleman who wrote for the Saturday Review." Other changes in the Monks House version of the proof copy passage on Mr. A, Miss Clough, Miss Davies, and Shakespeare are confined to punctuation (in the new paragraph, in the Monks House typescript, a comma follows each of the three adjectives describing the critic, biographer, and poet) and a typographic error ("had not know" for "had not known"), except for the following three instances: instead of the proof copy's "puts his grandfather's teaching very piously into practice" Woolf had earlier typed in the Monks House text "says in much the same manner 'And they can't do this!'"; the Monks House "And it is in protest against Miss Clough" etc. becomes in the proof text the qualified statement "It is partly in protest against Miss Clough" etc.; the new paragraph in the Monks House typescript begins "What, then, I began to fear, I thought, <shutting Mr. A &> glancing at a critic," etc., in the proof copy reads "What, then, one must begin to fear, I thought, and glancing at a critic," etc. (Rosenbaum 187).

(40) Woolf cites, as an example of hyper-virility, the letters of Sir Walter Alexander Raleigh (1861-1922), the literary critic who held the first Chair of English Literature at Oxford. After his death, his wife edited a selection of his letters, which were published in 1926. Though Woolf does not address the question at length, she does provide an indication of why she, in fact, prefers the writings of men who lived much earlier than Davies and Clough to literature by their male contemporaries and successors. Toward the end of Chapter 4, she writes: "What was Shakespeare's state of mind, for instance, when he wrote Lear and Antony and Cleopatra? It was certainly the state of mind most favourable to poetry that there has ever existed. But Shakespeare himself said nothing about it. We only know casually and by chance that he 'never blotted a line'. Nothing indeed was ever said by the artist himself about his state of mind until the eighteenth century perhaps. Rousseau perhaps began it. At any rate, by the nineteenth century self-consciousness had developed so far that it was the habit for men of letters to describe their minds in confessions and autobiographies. Their lives also were written, and their letters were printed after their deaths. Thus, though we do not know what Shakespeare went through when he wrote Lear, we do know what Carlyle went through when he wrote the French Revolution; what Flaubert went through when he wrote Madame Bovary; what Keats was going through when he tried to write poetry against the coming death and the indifference of the world" (71). In other words, it was the ability of Shakespeare and others like him to transmute their personalities in the impersonal fires of creativity that allowed them to compose great literature.

(41) The passage on Fascist Italy and Mussolini's omnipresent visage emerges from a similar passage in the Fitzwilliam manuscript, but the proof passage, virtually suppressed in the first edition, is lengthier, more detailed and more derisive than the Fitzwilliam passage. (See Rosenbaum 160.)

(42) In a passage near the book's conclusion, as Woolf conducts a review of "these notes and criticize[s] my own train of thought as I made them," she much more obviously and shockingly retreats from too explicitly identifying men as perpetrators of violence against women. In the proof text, she says that she sees that through this book courses a "conviction" or "instinct" that "good writers, even if they cheat and lie and beat their husbands and wives, are still good human beings" (Proof, 168). This passage is obviously an ironic evenhanded condemnation of women and men for infidelity, lying and violence. The extreme rarity of husband-beating, especially in Woolf's day, and Woolf's giving it priority over wife-beating, should make this self-evident. The first edition text reads: "and that good writers, even if they show every variety of human depravity, are still good human beings" (152-53). Woolf goes on to urge women to write, because it "will be for your good and for the good of the world at large." In the proof text, this desire is a natural response to the specter of male violence. Women need to write and publish as part of a larger effort to establish their financial, legal, and psychological independence.

(43) "Perhaps a mind that is purely masculine cannot create, any more than a mind that is purely feminine, I thought. But it would be well to test what one meant by man-womanly, and conversely by woman-manly, by pausing and looking at a book or two" (137).

(44) "It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly" (145).

(45) In this regard, we should note a change to the proof text that Woolf made near the book's end, just before commencing her "peroration." Addressing her young women readers, she writes: "So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, to try to write a book, even if it is a bad one, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality, [...]" (Proof, 170). The first edition text (154) omits the bolded phrase, perhaps because Woolf thought that it might sound defeatist to some (male) ears.

(46) See Juvenal's Satire 6, which is devoted to women's perfidy, selfish cunning, vanity, and greed. Here is an example: "The bed that holds a wife is never free from wrangling and mutual bickerings; no sleep is to be got there! It is there that she sets upon her husband, more savage than a tigress that has lost her cubs; conscious of her own secret slips, she affects a grievance, abusing his slaves, or weeping over some imagined mistress. She has an abundant supply of tears always ready in their place, awaiting her command in which fashion they should flow. You, poor dolt, are delighted, believing them to be tears of love, and kiss them away; but what notes, what love-letters would you find if you opened the desk of your green-eyed adulterous wife! If you find her in the arms of a slave or of a knight, [...]." Translated by G. G. Ramsay, Loeb Classical Library.

(47) For a similar reason, Woolf emended the passage in which she recounts her reaction to the introductory portions of Carmichael's novel. The proof copy reads: "and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style--I know not what--(one must wait till the end to name these things); if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure, if she has five hundred a year of her own--" (Proof, 127). But in the first edition, Woolf omits the reference to her own uncertainty, and to her conviction that when reading a novel one should not be too quick to form an opinion of its merit: "and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style; if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure; if she has five hundred a year of her own--" (117). Clearly, Woolf wished to erase any indication that she was what a male critic might have regarded as a vacillating woman, unsure of her own opinion.

APPENDIX

Appendix of Variants Between the Proof Copy and the First Edition of A Room of One's Own

Compiled by Isaac Gewirtz from the Proof Copy Housed in the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundation

Grateful acknowledgment is made to The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Virginia Woolf.

Note: Monks House typescript passages have been included where they differ from the proof copy passages listed below, i.e., the proof copy passages that differ from the first edition text. The Monks House passages are provided in a footnote; following Rosenbaum's transcription, words added to the typescript in Woolf's hand are supplied between the symbols < >.

CHAPTER 1

Proof Copy

p. 6: I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions--women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, mysterious, unknown.

p. 8: That collar I have spoken of, Women and Fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion,

p. 8: On the farther bank beautiful willows wept in perpetual lamentation,

p. 9: But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind--put back into the mind, it became at once very beautiful, and important;

p. 9: Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel is the place for me. To think this was the work of a moment.

p. 10: for if the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is here in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning.

p. 12: The critics often say that Esmond is Thackeray's more perfect novel.

p. 12: only perhaps the eighteenth-century style was indeed quite natural to Thackeray--

p. 13: I had no wish to go in had I the right,

p. 13: busying themselves at the door like bees at the mouth of a hive.

p. 14: the venerable congregation had gone inside. But the outside of the chapel remained.

p. 16: as if soup, salmon and ducklings

p. 16 of no importance whatever,

p. 17: but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow, the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse.

p. 18: padding softly across the quadrangle by some fluke of the subconscious intelligence changed the emotional light for me.

p. 18: Certainly, as I watched the manx cat,

p. 20: Was that what women sang at luncheon parties before the war?

p. 20: There was something so ludicrous in thinking of people saying such things

p. 20: by pointing at the manx cat,

p. 20: It is a queer animal, quaint rather than beautiful--you know the sort of things one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats.

p. 22: But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at this very moment. One does not recognise it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; that one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with what is being born in one at the moment. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry.

p. 23-24: For truth ... those dots mark the spot where, in search of truth, I missed the turning up to Fernham. The truth--Which was truth and which was illusion, I asked myself? What is the truth about these houses, for example,

p. 25: when for some reason the beauty of the world revealed and yet soon to pass [...] the beauty of the world which is so soon to pass,

p. 25: here I pushed into the garden by an open door, for, unwisely

p. 26 could it be that famous scholar,

p. 27: That was all. Everybody scraped their chairs back;

p. 29: In a minute or so we slipped freely in and out among all those objects of curiosity and interest

p. 29: which spring naturally such beginnings.

p. 29: While these things were being said I became shamefacedly aware, however, of a current

p. 30: what lies beneath its gallant red bricks

p. 31: Can anyone persuade the editor of the--to take a letter?

p. 32: Now if she had gone into business, become a manufacturer

p. 32: if she had left two or three hundred thousand pounds to this college,

p. 32: at our ease to-night

p. 33: we might have dined very tolerably up here alone off a bird and a bottle of wine, and have looked forward without undue confidence to a lifetime spent in the shelter of one of the liberally endowed professions.

p. 34: For, to endow a college would necessitate the suppression of families altogether. Thirteen brothers and sisters. No human being could stand it.

p. 35: perhaps to found a scholarship or endow a fellowship

p. 35: Not a penny could be spared for "amenities"; partridges and wine,

p. 36: of the painted windows that would be throwing strange blues and purples on the pavement;

p. 36: of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets and of the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space.

p. 37: and I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and then I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of [the] poverty and insecurity of the other and of their effect upon the mind of a writer,

First Edition

p. 4. 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.

p. 5: That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion,

p. 6: On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation,

p. 6: 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;

p. 7: Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel is the place for me. Such thoughts were the work of a moment.

p. 7: for if the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning.

p. 9: The critics often say that Esmond is Thackeray's most perfect novel.

p. 9: unless indeed the eighteenth-century style was natural to Thackeray--

p. 10: I had no wish to enter had I the right,

p. 11: busying themselves at the door of the Chapel like bees at the mouth of a hive.

p. 11: the venerable congregation had gone inside. The outside of the chapel remained.

p. 13: as if soup and salmon and ducklings

p. 13: "of no importance whatsoever,

p. 14: but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow, which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse.

p. 15: padding softly across the quadrangle changed by some fluke of the sub-conscious intelligence the emotional light for me.

p. 15: Certainly, as I watched the Manx cat,

p. 17: Was that what women hummed at luncheon parties before the war?

p. 17: There was something so ludicrous in thinking of people humming such things

p. 17: by pointing at the Manx cat,

p. 17: It is a queer animal, quaint rather than beautiful. It is strange what a difference a tail makes--you know the sort of things one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats.

p. 19: But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at this very moment. One does not recognise it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with the old feeling that one knew. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry.

p. 20: For truth ... those dots mark the spot where, in search of truth, I missed the turning up to Fernham. Yes indeed, which was truth and which was illusion, I asked myself? What was the truth about these houses, for example,

p. 22: when for some reason the beauty of the world revealed and yet soon to perish [...] the beauty of the world which is so soon to perish,

p. 22: here I pushed into the garden, for, unwisely

p. 23: could it be the famous scholar,

p. 24: That was all. The meal was over. Everybody scraped their chairs back;

p. 25: In a minute or so we were slipping freely in and out among all those objects of curiosity and interest

p. 25: which spring naturally from such beginnings.

p. 25: While these things were being said, however, I became shamefacedly aware of a current

p. 26: what lies beneath its gallant red brick

p. 27: Can anyone persuade the editor of the--to print a letter?

p. 28: Now if she had gone into business; had become a manufacturer

p. 28: if she had left two or three hundred thousand pounds to Fernham,

p. 28: at our ease tonight

p. 29: we might have dined very tolerably up here alone off a bird and a bottle of wine; we might have looked forward without undue confidence to a lifetime spent in the shelter of one of the liberally endowed professions.

p. 30: For, to endow a college would necessitate the suppression of families altogether. Making a fortune and bearing thirteen children--no human being could stand it.

p. 31: perhaps to found a scholarship or to endow a fellowship

p. 31: Not a penny could be spared for "amenities"; for partridges and wine,

p. 32: of the painted windows that would be throwing strange globes and crescents on the pavement;

p. 32: of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets: the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space.

p. 33: and I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer,

CHAPTER 2

Proof Copy

p. 39: the learned and the unprejudiced, who have removed themselves above the strife of tongue and the confusion of body

p. 39: in Bloomsbury boarding-houses in the winter.

p. 41: and waited in my stall, among the other seekers, for the essential oil of truth.

p. 43: Condition of, in Middle Ages, In the Feejee Islands, Worshipped as goddesses by, Lacking in moral sense, Greater conscientiousness of, Age of puberty among South Sea Islanders,

p. 44: Here I drew breath I added, indeed, in the margin,

p. 44: but by now somewhat harrassed thought, what is so unfortunate is that wise men never say the same thing about women.

p. 44: a direct contradiction it seems by men who were contemporary.

p. 44-45: Dr. Johnson thought the very opposite.

p. 45: It was distressing, it was bewildering, it was humiliating. It made me wish more than ever that I had been educated at Oxbridge.

p. 45 footnote 1: women knowing as much as themselves....In

p. 46: or that the age of puberty among the Feejee Islanders is nine,

p. 46: And if I could not grasp the truth about W. [.] in the past, why bother about W. and the future?

p. 46: all those gentlemen who specialise in women and her effect on whatever it may be; politics, children, ways, morality, numerous and learned as they are. One might as well leave them unopened.

p. 48: I looked at the student next me.

p. 49: the habits of the Feejee Islanders.

p. 52: Possibly they were not "angry" at all; often, indeed, they were admiring, devoted, exemplary fathers and husbands in private life.

p. 53: Does it help to explain some of those psychological puzzles that one meets with so frequently in daily life?

p. 53-54: Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. The Czar looks into the eyes of the Czarina; the Kaiser looks into the eyes of the Kaiserin; in both they see themselves reflected far bigger than they appear elsewhere. Thus they begin bragging and boasting; they imagine themselves Supermen or Fingers of Destiny or whatever the phrase may be; and we are plunged in all the glories of a European war. Mirrors are essential to men of action in particular, I thought.

p. 54-55: unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is? The looking-glass vision, the superiority complex--if one must drag in such ugly words--has become a necessity to him. It charges him with vitality; it stimulates his nervous system. Take it away and he may die, like the drug fiend deprived of his cocaine.

p. 55: they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is then that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance--but the course of these reflections was interrupted. The waiter brought the bill.

And the theory of the looking-glass, I thought, as I opened my purse, also serves to explain what otherwise seems irrational and against human interest--the strong wish on the part of one sex that the other shall not bring trophies to the common store surpassing those which he brings himself. Were a tribe of women discovered in Central Asia, say, one of whom had written plays better than Lear, another made a discovery of greater importance than Einsteins [sic], the news would be received in London at first with incredulity; later, if it were confirmed, such a rage, such a jealousy would seize upon the rivals that they would steal off at dead of night and make away with these divine works, or write over the Anne or Jane on the title-page an emphatic George or John.

But these contributions to the dangerous and fascinating subject of the psychology of the other sex--it is one, I hope, that you will investigate when you have five hundred a year of your own--was interrupted by the necessity of paying the bill. (1)

p. 56: pieces of paper which were left me by an aunt, for no other reason that that I share her name.

p. 56: To begin with, always to be doing work that one did not wish to do, and then to do it like a slave,

p. 57: and the stakes were too great to run any risk;

p. 57: perishing and with it my self, my soul,

p. 57-58: and whenever I change a ten-shilling note a little of that rust and corrosion is rubbed off by those silver shillings, and fear and bitterness go.

p. 58: Indeed, I thought, slipping the change into my purse,

p. 58: I need not flatter any man; he had nothing to give me.

p. 58: It was absurd to blame any sex or any class, I thought, as a whole.

p. 58: had endless difficulties, terrific drawbacks to contend with.

p. 59: to make barriers and flags;

p. 60: So in thinking and speculating I found my way back to my house by the river.

p. 60: It was as if the great machine after labouring all day had made with our help a few yards of something very exciting and beautiful--a fiery fabric flashing with red eyes, flaunting in the breeze.

p. 61: is the charwoman who has brought up eight children less valuable

p. 62: upon the subject of my paper, which is Women and Fiction?

First Edition

p. 35: the learned and the unprejudiced, who had removed themselves above the strife of tongue and the confusion of body

p. 35: in the boarding-houses of Bloomsbury in the winter.

p. 37: and waited in my stall, among the other seekers for the essential oil of truth.

p. 39: Condition in Middle Ages of, Habits in the Fiji Islands of, Worshipped as goddesses by, Weaker in moral sense than, Greater conscientiousness of, South Sea Islanders, age of puberty among,

p. 40: Here I drew breath and added, indeed, in the margin, Why

p. 40: but by now somewhat harassed thought, what is so unfortunate is that wise men never think the same thing about women.

p. 40: a direct contradiction by keen observers who were contemporary.

p. 40: Dr. Johnson thought the opposite.

p. 41: It was distressing, it was bewildering, it was humiliating. Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.

p. 40: footnote 1: women knowing as much as themselves.' ... In

p. 41: or that the age of puberty among the South Sea Islanders is nine,

p. 42: And if I could not grasp the truth about W. [.] in the past, why bother about W. in the future?

p. 42: all those gentlemen who specialise in woman and her effect on whatever it may be--politics, children, wages, morality--numerous and learned as they are. One might as well leave their books unopened.

p. 43-44: I looked at the student next to me.

p. 44: the habits of the Fiji Islanders.

p. 47: Possibly they were not "angry" at all; often, indeed, they were admiring, devoted, exemplary in the relations of private life.

p. 48: Does it help to explain some of those psychological puzzles that one notes in the margin of daily life?

p. 49: Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheepskins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Czar and the Kaiser would never have worn their crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action.

p. 50: unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is? So I reflected, crumbling my bread and stirring my coffee and now and again looking at the people in the street. The looking-glass vision is of supreme importance because it charges the vitality; it stimulates the nervous system. Take it away and man may die, like the drug fiend deprived of his cocaine.

p. 50: they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is thus that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance, which have had such profound consequences in public life and lead to such curious notes in the margin of the private mind.

But these contributions to the dangerous and fascinating subject of the psychology of the other sex--it is one, I hope, that you will investigate when you have five hundred a year of your own--were interrupted by the necessity of paying the bill.

p. 51: pieces of paper which were left me by an aunt, for no other reason than that I share her name.

p. 52: To begin with, always to be doing work that one did not wish to do, and to do it like a slave,

p. 52: and the stakes were too great to run risks;

p. 52: perishing and with it myself, my soul,

p. 52: and whenever I change a ten-shilling note a little of that rust and corrosion is rubbed off; fear and bitterness go.

p. 52: Indeed, I thought, slipping the silver into my purse,

p. 52: I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

p. 52: It was absurd to blame any sex or any class, as a whole.

p. 53: had endless difficulties, terrible drawbacks to contend with.

p. 53: to make frontiers and flags;

p. 54: So thinking, so speculating, I found my way back to my house by the river.

p. 54: It was as if the great machine after labouring all day had made with our help a few yards of something very exciting and beautiful--a fiery fabric flashing with red eyes, a tawny monster roaring with hot breath.

p. 55: is the charwoman who has brought up eight children of less value

p. 56: upon the subject of my paper, Women and Fiction?

CHAPTER 3

Proof Copy

p. 63: It would be better to narrow the enquiry. It would be better to draw the curtains; to shut out all distractions; to light the lamp; to go to the bookcase and to ask the historian, who records not opinions but facts, to describe under what conditions women lived, not throughout the ages, but in England, say in the time of Elizabeth.

p. 65: the Duchess of Malfi, to begin with among the dramatists;

p. 66, note 1: Cassandra Atossa

p. 67-68: What one must do to bring her to life, to make an ordinary human being of her, was to think poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment, thus keeping in touch with fact--that she is Mrs. Martin dressed in blue, wearing a black hat and brown shoes; but not losing sight of fiction either--that she is a vessel of all sorts of spirits and forces, coursing and flashing perpetually through her veins.

p. 68: to see what history meant to him, and I found

p. 68: History did not mean women: occasionally an individual woman is mentioned, an Elizabeth, a Mary;

p. 69: presumably in parish registers

p. 71: How the borders of ignorance shrank at their approach!

p. 71: it would have been impossible, utterly and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.

p. 72: Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a hard-working actor,

p. 77: which if not implanted by the other sex was liberally encouraged by them. The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much talked-of man--that publicity in women is detestable.

p. 77: will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling any irresistible desire to cut their names on it,

p. 78: What was Shakespeare's state of mind when he wrote Lear and Antony and Cleopatra, I wondered?

p. 78: the state of mind most favourable to poetry that there has ever been.

p. 79: "Mighty poets in their misery dead", that is the burden of their song.

p. 80: was not in her case indifference but hostility.

p. 81: I will quote, I thought, going to the bookcase, Mr. Oscar Browning,

p. 82: And happily in this age of biography the two pictures are often available,

p. 83: said Mr. Greg, "are that they are supported by, and they minister to, men"--

p. 84: On the contrary, she was snubbed and slapped, lectured and exhorted.

p. 84: Her mind must have been strained and harassed with the need of opposing this or disproving that. For here again we come within range of that very interesting and obscure masculine complex--as I suppose one must call it; that deep-seated desire,

p. 84: "[...] all my violence in politiks"

p. 85: The spectacle is certainly a strange one, I thought. An amusing book might be made of it if some young student at Girton or Newnham would collect examples and anecdotes and sayings,--but she would need thick gloves on her hands, and bars to protect her of solid gold.

p. 85, note 1: by Ray Strachey.

p. 86: Think of Tennyson-think--but I need hardly multiply instances

p. 86: who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.

p. 87: to make the world the witness of some hardship or injury was fired out of him and consumed.

p. 87: If ever a human being got his work expressed completely, it was Shakespeare. His mind was incandescent, unimpeded, I thought, turning again to the bookcase.

First Edition

p. 57: It would be better to draw the curtains; to shut out distractions; to light the lamp; to narrow the enquiry and to ask the historian, who records not opinions but facts, to describe under what conditions women lived, not throughout the ages, but in England, say in the time of Elizabeth.

p. 59: the Duchess of Malfi, among the dramatists;

p. 60, note 1: Cassandra, Atossa

p. 61: What one must do to bring her to life was to think poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment, thus keeping in touch with fact--that she is Mrs. Martin, aged thirty-six, dressed in blue, wearing a black hat and brown shoes; but not losing sight of fiction either--that she is a vessel in which all sorts of spirits and forces are coursing and flashing perpetually.

p. 61: to see what history meant to him. I found

p. 62: Occasionally an individual woman is mentioned, an Elizabeth, or a Mary;

p. 62: presumably, in parish registers

p. 64: How the borders of ignorance shrank back at their approach!

p. 64: it would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.

p. 65: Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor,

p. 70: which if not implanted by the other sex was liberally encouraged by them (the chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much talked-of man), that publicity in women is detestable.

p. 70: will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it,

p. 71: What was Shakespeare's state of mind, for instance, when he wrote Lear and Antony and Cleopatra?

p. 71: the state of mind most favourable to poetry that there has ever existed.

p. 72: "Mighty poets in their misery dead"--that is the burden of their song.

p. 73: was in her case not indifference but hostility.

p. 74: I will quote, however, Mr. Oscar Browning,

p. 74: And happily in this age of biography the two pictures often do complete each other,

p. 83 said Mr. Greg emphatically, "are that they are supported by, and they minister to, men"--

p. 76: On the contrary, she was snubbed, slapped, lectured and exhorted.

p. 76: Her mind must have been strained and her vitality lowered by the need of opposing this, of disproving that. For here again we come within range of that very interesting and obscure masculine complex which has had so much influence upon the woman's movement; that deep-seated desire,

p. 77: "[.] all my violence in politics"

p. 77: The spectacle is certainly a strange one, I thought. The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself. An amusing book might be made of it if some young student at Girton or Newnham would collect examples and deduce a theory, --but she would need thick gloves on her hands, and bars to protect her of solid gold.

p. 78, note 1: by R. Strachey.

p. 78: Think of Tennyson; think--but I need hardly multiply instances

p. 78: who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

p. 79: to make the world the witness of some hardship or grievance was fired out of him and consumed.

p. 79: If ever a human being got his work expressed completely, it was Shakespeare. If ever a mind was incandescent, unimpeded, I thought, turning again to the bookcase, it was Shakespeare's mind.

CHAPTER 4

First Edition

p. 89: The human race is split up for her into two parts.

p. 91: "must have",

p. 92: and so, putting her back on the shelf,

p. 93: What a vision of loneliness and riot the thought of Margaret Cavendish brings to mind! It is as if some giant cucumber had spread itself over all the roses and carnations in the garden and choked them to death.

p. 95: and then I an gon.

p. 96: a middle-class woman with all the plebeian virtues of humour, candour, vitality and courage;

p. 96: "Martyrs I have made",

p. 97: Lord Dudley, The Times said when Lady Dudley died the other day, "a man of cultivated cultured taste and many accomplishments was benevolent and bountiful,

p. 97: Then Lord Dudley had a stroke and she nursed him and ruled the estates with supreme competence for ever after. That was in the nineteenth century too.

p. 100: Both in France and in England the poetesses precede the prose writers.

p. 100-101: If a woman wrote, she would have to write in the common sitting-room. And though it must always be difficult to write in the common sitting-room with people going in and out, still it would be easier to write prose and fiction there than to write poetry or a play. Less concentration is required. One would not lose one's temper so violently if interrupted. Jane Austen wrote like that to the end of her days.

p. 102: the overflow of George Eliot's capacious mind should have spread itself upon history or biography when the creative impulse was spent.

p. 103: But perhaps Jane Austen was so perfectly adapted that she never wanted what she had not.

p. 103: and my eye was caught by the phrase "Anybody may blame"

p. 103-104: and it was this that they blamed her for

p. 105: That is an awkward break, I thought, the continuity is disturbed. It is upsetting to come upon Grace Poole all of a sudden.

p. 108-109: The whole structure, it seems to me, thinking back on any famous novel, is one of infinite complexity;

p. 109: Or perhaps it is rather, I thought, trying to match my own emotions more exactly, that Nature, very queerly and for no reason that I can see, has traced in invisible ink on the walls of the mind a premonition which these great geniuses confirm;

p. 110: but there they stop;

p. 110: in their development;

p.110: to go on with this vast labour

p. 111: a buried suffering smouldering beneath her passion, which contracts those books,

p. 112: everywhere and much more subtly the difference persists.

p. 112: with docility and diffidence, with anger and emphasis.

p. 113: like some too conscientious governess, nagging at them, adjuring them,

p. 114, note 2: by courageously acknowledging the limitations of their sex, Jane Austen, and, in our own time, Mrs. Virginia Woolf have [has] demonstrated how gracefully this gesture can be accomplished).... (2)

p. 114: that this sentence was written in August 1928 and not in August 1828,

p. 115: when they came to set their thoughts on paper, and that is

p. 116: which has taken their own tint without ceasing to be common property.

p. 116: ran something like this: Perhaps the grandeur of their works [...] and habit facilitates success. That is a man's sentence;

p. 116-117: for her own use and never departed from it. She examined their employments, looked at their work and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins' joints of meat were too large for her family. Thus, with less genius for writing than Charlotte Bronte, (3)

p. 117: Indeed, since freedom and fullness of expression is of the essence of writing,

p. 117: And this shape too has been made by men and cut by their own need for their own uses. (4)

p. 117: my sense of the words inadequacy

p. 118: And I went on to ponder how a woman would write a poetic tragedy in five acts nowadays--not in verse, I think.

p. 119: but something different, and what that difference should be?

p. 119: If they are not going to be allowed to practise medicine--(5)

Proof Copy

p. 81: The human race is split up for her into two parts. into two parties.

p. 83: "must have,"

p. 84: and so, putting her back on the shelf,

p. 85: What a vision of loneliness and riot the thought of Margaret Cavendish brings to mind! as if some giant cucumber had spread itself over all the roses and carnations in the garden and choked them to death.

p. 86: and then I am gon.

p. 88: a middle-class woman with all the plebeian virtues of humour, vitality and courage;

p. 88: "Martyrs I have made,"

p. 88-89: Lord Dudley, The Times said when Lady Dudley died the other day, 'a man of cultivated taste and many accomplishments, was benevolent and bountiful,

p. 89: Then Lord Dudley had a stroke and she nursed him and ruled his estates with supreme competence for ever after. That whimsical despotism was in the nineteenth century too.

p. 91: Both in France and in England the women poets precede the women novelists.

p. 92: If a woman wrote, she would have to write in the common sitting-room. And, as Miss Nightingale was so vehemently to complain,--"women never have an half hour ... that they can call their own"--she was always interrupted. Still it would be easier to write prose and fiction there than to write poetry or a play. Less concentration is required. Jane Austen wrote like that to the end of her days.

p. 93: the overflow of George Eliot's capacious mind should have spread itself when the creative impulse was spent upon history or biography.

p. 94: But perhaps it was the nature of Jane Austen not to want what she had not.

p. 94, and my eye was caught by the phrase, "Anybody may blame"

p. 95: and it was for this that they blamed her

p. 96: That is an awkward break, I thought. It is upsetting to come upon Grace Poole all of a sudden.

p. 99: The whole structure, it is obvious, thinking back on any famous novel, is one of infinite complexity,

p. 100: Or perhaps it is rather that Nature, in her most irrational mood,

has traced in invisible ink on the walls of the mind a premonition which these great geniuses confirm;

p. 101: but there they stop:

p. 101: in their development:

p. 101: to go on with the vast labour

p. 102: a buried suffering smouldering beneath her passion, a rancour which contracts those books,

p. 102: everywhere and much more subtly the difference of value persists.

p. 103: with docility and diffidence, or with anger and emphasis.

p. 104: like some too conscientious governess, adjuring them,

p. 104, note 2: by courageously acknowledging the limitations of their sex, (Jane Austen [has] demonstrated how gracefully this gesture can be accomplished).

p. 104: that this sentence was written not in August 1828 but in August 1928,

p. 105: when they came to set their thoughts on paper--that is

p. 106: taking their own tint without ceasing to be common property.

p. 106: ran something like this perhaps: "The grandeur of their works [...] and habit facilitates success." That is a man's sentence;

p. 107: for her own use and never departed from it. Thus, with less genius for writing than Charlotte Bronte,

p. 107: Indeed, since freedom and fullness of expression are of the essence of the art,

p. 107: And this shape too has been made by men out of their own needs for their own uses.

p. 107: my sense of the words' inadequacy

p. 107-108: And I went on to ponder how a woman nowadays would write a poetic tragedy in five acts--would she use verse--would she not use prose rather?

p. 108-109: but something that is different; and what should that difference be?

p. 109: If through their incapacity to play football women are not going to be allowed to practise medicine--

CHAPTER 5

Proof Copy

p. 120: There is Jane Harrison's book on Greek archaeology; Vernon Lee's book on aesthetics; Gertrude Bell's book on Persia. (6)

p. 121: and was published this October.

p. 121: in a fairly long series; continuing all those other books,

p. 122: For while Jane Austen breaks from melody to melody, to read this writing was like being out at sea on an open boat.

p. 122: might mean that she is afraid of something;

p. 123: I give her every liberty, I said,

p. 125: vaguely recalling the splendid gallery of fictitious women,

p. 126: even in Proust,

p. 127: and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style--I know not what--(one must wait till the end to name these things); if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure, if she has five hundred a year of her own--

p. 127: like those Serpentine Caves

p. 128: for women are so wary, so suspicious of any interest that has not some obvious motive behind it, [.] that they are off at the flicker of an eye turned observingly in their direction. Oh yes, he will be in in half an hour, they say, and sit down and talk about the weather." The only way for you to do it,

p. 129: so as to absorb it into the rest without disturbing the infinitely intricate and elaborate balance of the whole.

p. 129: One cannot go to the map and say Columbus discovered America and Columbus was a woman;

p. 130: and has received a certain number of degrees, offices, medals and other distinctions.

p. 130: "infinitely intricate" of women,

p. 130-131: And I began thinking of all those great men who have for one reason or another sought out, lived with, confided in, made love to, written of, admired, trusted in, and shown what can only be described as some need of and dependence upon certain persons of the opposite sex.

p. 132: hard as horsehair or soft as feathers--

p. 133: But how different is this creative power from the creative power of men. [.] it would be a thousand pities if her creative power were hindered or wasted,

p. 137: of Keats and his use of Miltonic inversion which old Thing-em-a-bob and his like are now inditing.

p. 137: Think how with what humanity and brilliancy men, from the earliest ages, have pointed out to women their faults!

p. 138: to see what in fact Mary Carmichael was writing.

p. 138-139: merely giving things their natural order, as they came in her mind, as a woman would, if she wrote like a woman.

p. 141: that she was not a skimmer of surfaces merely, but had been scattering her pages with forethought.

p. 141-142: half forgotten perhaps, quite trivial things

p. 142: while some one sewed

p. 142: But there was fence beyond that and a fence beyond that.

p. 143: give her a room of her own and an adequate income,

First Edition

p. 110: There are Jane Harrison's books on Greek archaeology; Vernon Lee's books on aesthetics; Gertrude Bell's books on Persia.

p. 111: and was published in this very month of October.

p. 111: in a fairly long series, continuing all those other books,

p. 112: For while Jane Austen breaks from melody to melody as Mozart from song to song, to read this writing was like being out at sea on an open boat.

p. 112: might mean that she was afraid of something;

p. 113: I will give her every liberty, I said,

p. 114: rapidly recalling the splendid gallery of fictitious women,

p. 115: even in the writing of Proust,

p. 117: and I was beginning to enjoy some quality in her style; if she has a room to herself, of which I am not quite sure; if she has five hundred a year of her own--

p. 117: like those serpentine Caves

p. 118: for women are so suspicious of any interest that has not some obvious motive behind it, [...] that they are off at the flicker of an eye turned observingly in their direction. The only way for you to do it,

p. 118: so as to absorb the new into the old without disturbing the infinitely intricate and elaborate balance of the whole.

p. 118-119: One could not go to the map and say Columbus discovered America and Columbus was a woman;

p. 119: and has received a certain number of degrees, offices, medals and other distinctions by which his merits are stamped upon him indelibly.

p. 119: "infinitely intricate," of women,

p. 120: And I began thinking of all those great men who have for one reason or another admired, sought out, lived with, confided in, made love to, written of, trusted in, and shown what can only be described as some need of and dependence upon certain persons of the opposite sex.

p. 122: are hard as horsehair or soft as feathers--

p. 122: But this creative power differs greatly from the creative power of men. [...] it would be a thousand pities if it were hindered or wasted,

p. 126: of Keats and his use of Miltonic inversion which old Professor Z and his like are now inditing.

p. 126: Think with what humanity and brilliancy men, from the earliest ages, have pointed out to women that dark place at the back of the head!

p. 127: to see what in fact Mary Carmichael did write.

127: merely giving things their natural order, as a woman would, if she wrote like a woman.

p. 130: that she was not a skimmer of surfaces merely, but had looked beneath into the depths.

p. 130: half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things

p. 130: while someone sewed

p. 131: But there was a fence beyond that and a fence beyond that.

p. 131: give her a room of her own and five hundred a year,

CHAPTER 6

Proof Copy

p. 144: and see what London was doing on the morning of the 26th of October 1928.

p. 144: for the future of fiction, the death of poetry or the development by the average woman of a style completely expressive of her mind.

p. 147 "the unity of the mind", I pondered,

p. 148: that the union of man and woman makes for the greatest possible satisfaction and happiness.

p. 149: But it would be well to test what one meant by an androgynous, conversely by a gynandros mind, by looking at a book or two.

p. 150: how much harder it is to attain that condition now than ever before, I thought, coming to the books by living writers, and there pausing and wondering if this fact were not at the root of something that had long been puzzling me.

p. 150: a new novel by Mr. A who is in the prime of life

p. 151: something like the letter "I". One began dodging

p. 151: hailed to the letter "I". One began to be tired of "I". Not but what

p. 152: One cannot go on saying "But". One must finish

p. 152: But why was I bored? Partly because of the dominance of the letter "I" and the aridity, which, like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade. Nothing will grow there. That, however, is all Lady Bessborough's fault. Lady Bessborough with her passion for politics always pretended that the Napoleonic wars were not half so important as Lord Granville's maiden speech. Naturally, he believed her, and when he comes to write (for Mr. A descends from Lord Granville, just as Mary Carmichael descends from Lady Winchilsea) his pen forms the letter "I" by instinct. And then, of course, he descends from Oscar Browning, who found the stupidest man more intelligent than the cleverest woman; so that when he comes to write about women he has nothing of great interest to say about them; but simplifies them and cannot put a bone in their bodies. And then I continued, remembering the lunch party at Oxbridge, and the cigarette ash and the Manx cat and Tennyson and Christina Rossetti all in a bunch," as he no longer hums under his breath, 'There has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate', when Phoebe crosses the beach, and she no longer replies, "My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a water'd shoot", when he approaches what can he do? (7)

p. 153: aware of the awful nature of the confession, which proved me cold as ice and old as the hills, seems somehow dull.

p. 153-154: But Shakespeare does it for pleasure; Mr. A, as the nurses say, does it on purpose. But it is not Mr. A's fault, I said, skipping through the rest of the book; it is the fault of Miss Clough and Miss Emily Davies. When Miss Clough and Miss Emily Davies said that girls had brains and must be allowed to use them, Mr. A's grandfather said on the contrary they have but two desires, to serve men and [p. 154] to minister to their needs; and Mr. A (who descends, of course, from his grandfather) puts his grandfather's teaching very piously into practice. It is partly in protest against Miss Clough and Miss Davies that he does it, again and again, and attaches what would otherwise seem to be disproportionate importance to the physical act which Shakespeare, who had not known Miss Clough and Miss Davies, lumps up together with a thousand other states of mind and makes poetry of.

What, then, one must begin to fear, I thought, and glancing at a critic, and then at a biographer, and then at a poet, all well known and young and brilliant, is that virility has now become self-conscious--men, that is to say, are now writing only with the male side side of their brains. (8)

p. 154: but the trouble is, it seems, that his feelings no longer communicate; his mind is separated into different chambers; not a sound carries from one to the other.

[In this instance, the Monks House typescript differences have been integrated into the proof copy passage for ease of transcription and comprehension.]

p. 155: but when one takes a sentence of Coleridge into the mind, it explodes and gives birth to all kinds of other ideas, and that is the only sort of writing of which one can say that it has the secret of perpetual life.

But of course this is a purely subjective test and may very well prove only my limitations as a reader, not Mr. B's as a critic. It is also my fault, I cannot doubt, that when I read those eloquent passages by Mr. C. which seem to blossom in purple and red, I feel as if the gilt arm-chair [arm chair] were spouting to the mahogany sideboard [side board] in the dusk. And when I see his metaphors approaching slowly over the horizon they look like the stuffed ravens in the Gotterdammerung, and one is anxious lest they should topple over in mid-air <in mid-career> and fly out again upside-down [up side down] among the laughter of the audience. [From "Everything seems <to be> at least ten sizes too big for a living person," continuing for about 1000 words, containing the critique of Kipling and Galsworthy is omitted from the proof copy, with the exception of the two lines below, until the reminiscence of fascist Italy] All this is one's own fault, no doubt, or the fault of one's sex; but it is a thousand pities, for it means that some of the finest works of our greatest living writers, the Forsyte Saga and the works of Mr. Kipling, for instance, are not appreciated by women. They fail in suggestive power. It is not only that they celebrate male virtues, enforce male values and describe the world of men;

p.156: But one will rush away before that happens and hide in the gooseberry bushes, for the emotion which is so deep, so supple, so symbolical to a man moves a woman to laughter.

Proof Copy

p. 156: To women, therefore, books which are said to be the finest of our time remain dusty monuments, cabinets to which men alone have the key.

p. 157: For one can hardly fail to be impressed in Rome by the sense of unmitigated masculinity; by the network of regulations--one must not put one's foot there, one must not take off one's coat here. On every little grocer's shop there is stamped the head of a man whom one is invited to wish to live for ever. And not a blank wall is without its poster celebrating the triumph of some General; and not a courtyard is without its grown men in black shirts wheeling and turning in response to the shouts of officers. But the military side of it is beyond our purview; what effect has all this drumming and trampling, this trumpeting of manly ideals upon the art of poetry? Well, according to the newspapers, there is a certain anxiety about fiction in Italy. There has been a meeting of academicians

p. 158: The Fascist poem, one may fear, will be a horrid little abortion such as one sees in a glass jar [...] Two heads on one body or two bodies without a head do not make for length of life.

However, the fault for all this rests with women, of course, for had they stayed shut up in their sitting-rooms embroidering bags, or now and again taking a walk on the leads and looking at the view, the other sex would not have had to assert its virility. The blame for all this cock-a-doodling is to be laid, strange though it may seem, to the charge of certain very small demure women, who issued sometime about 1850 from obscure parsonages and middle-class homes in the English provinces: Miss Clough, Miss Leigh Smith, Miss Emily Davies. It is entirely their fault that English literature is infected with cock-a-doodle-dum; and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch all my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age, before Miss Davies and Miss Clough were born, when the writer used both sides of his mind equally.

p. 158-159: One must turn back to Shakespeare then, for Shakespeare was androgynous; and so was Keats and Sterne and Cowper and Lamb and Coleridge. Milton and Ben Jonson had a dash too much of the male in them. So had Wordsworth and Tolstoi. In our time Proust was wholly androgynous, if not perhaps a little too much of a woman. But that failing is too rare for one to complain of it, since without that quality books are airless and sterile.

Proof Copy

p. 160-161: Some collaboration has to take place in the mind between the woman and the man before the art of creation can be accomplished. What this collaboration is, how it takes place or has in the past taken place no critic or psychologist can tell us. With Antony and Cleopatra to guide us, one may say that the prelude to creation is an experience of such width and variety that one must take the sea and sky for likeness if one seeks one. The experience was agitated, broken, tempestuous; the mind was taken and thrown against the rocks and shattered in a thousand fragments. But there must have then here been some reconciliation; some marriage of opposites must have taken place to produce that sense of freedom that remains with one when one has read the play. One would not have had that feeling if Shakespeare had interfered, had checked his mind and forced it to do this and that. Any such consciousness would have chilled the flow of the words that are all melted together and made them harden and fall off separately one by one. "Daffodils that come before the swallow dares" must have been written at a stroke; whole scenes have that molten uniformity. It is presumptuous, it may be, even to hazard a guess at what went on in that particular brain. But whatever was Shakespeare's state of mind, one may perhaps arrive at the general statement that the whole of the mind must lie wide open if it is to work freely, if this marriage is to take place between opposites, if we are to get the sense that the writer is communicating his experience with perfect fullness. (9)

Proof Copy

p. 161: that tremendous stream. Here, then,

p. 162 She [Mary Beaton] has asked you to follow her flying into the arms of a Beadle, lunching at a men's college, dining at a woman's, drawing pictures in the British Museum,

p. 162: While she has been doing all these things, I hope that you have been contradicting her and making whatever additions and deductions seem good to you. Many things are visible to you that are not visible to her. Much that she thinks plain will seem to you questionable. That is all as it should be, (10)

p. 162: No opinion has been expressed, you may say, upon the comparative merits of the sexes even as writers. That was done purposely, not from cowardice or evasiveness, but because, even if the time had come for such a valuation, I do not believe that gifts, whether of mind or character, can be weighed like sugar or butter, not even in Cambridge,

p. 163: that a Commander of the Bath will ultimately walk into dinner behind a Master in Lunacy.

p. 163: where there are "sides", and it is necessary

p. 163: Are not reviews of current literature a source of perpetual amusement? "This great book"--"this worthless book"--the same book is called by both names.

p. 164: Even allowing a generous margin for symbolism, allowing that five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate, and that a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself

p. 166: of which great writing are born.

p. 167: Speaking selfishly, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle,

p. 167-168: let the line of thoughts dip deep into the stream.

p. 168: you will find that she is an inheritor as well as an originator, and has come into existence because women for some time previously had had the habit of writing;

p. 168: and that good writers, even if they cheat and lie and beat their husbands and wives, are still good human beings.

p. 169: How to justify this instinct or belief I do not know, for, not having been educated at a university, I am incapable of using scientific words correctly.

p. 169: What do I mean by "reality"? I wonder. It would seem to be

p. 170: the world seems bared, its covering rolled off it. Those are the enviable people who live at enmity with unreality. Those are the pitiable who are knocked on the head

p. 170: So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, to try to write a book, even if it is a bad one, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality,

p. 170: But those exhortations can safely, I think, be left to the other sex, who will put them, I feel sure, with far greater eloquence than I can.

p. 171: The truth is, I often like women. I often find them very interesting. I like their unconventionality.

p. 172: from Mr. John Langdon Davies. (1) He warns women"

p. 172: "women cease to be altogether necessary".

p. 173: We--or our mothers--have borne and bred and washed, and taught,

p. 173: at present in existence, and that, allowing that some had nurses to help them, takes time.

First Edition

p. 132: and see what London was doing on the morning of the twenty-sixth of October 1928.

p. 132: for the future of fiction, the death of poetry or the development by the average woman of a prose style completely expressive of her mind.

p. 134-135: "the unity of the mind," I pondered,

p. 136: that the union of man and woman makes for the greatest satisfaction, the most complete happiness.

p. 137: But it would be well to test what one meant by man-womanly, and conversely by woman-manly, by pausing and looking at a book or two.

p. 137: how much harder it is to attain that condition now than ever before. Here I came to the books by living writers, and there paused and wondered if this fact were not at the root of something that had long puzzled me.

p. 138: a new novel by Mr. A, who is in the prime of life

p. 138: something like the letter "I." One began dodging

p. 139: hailed to the letter "I." One began to be tired of "I." Not but what

p. 139: One cannot go on saying "But." One must finish

p. 139-140: like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade. Nothing will grow there. And partly for some obscure reason. There seemed to be some obstacle, some impediment in Mr. A's mind which blocked the fountain of creative energy and shored it within narrow limits. And remembering the lunch party at Oxbridge, and the cigarette ash and the Manx cat and Tennyson and Christina Rossetti all in a bunch, it seemed possible that the impediment lay there. As he no longer hums under his breath, "There has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate," when Phoebe crosses the beach, and she no longer replies, "My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a water'd shoot," when Alan approaches what can he do?

p. 140: aware of the awful nature of the confession, seems somehow dull.

p. 140: But Shakespeare does it for pleasure; Mr. A, as the nurses say, does it on purpose. He does it in protest. He is protesting against the equality of the other sex by asserting his own superiority. He is therefore impeded and inhibited and self-conscious as Shakespeare might have been if he too had known Miss Clough and Miss Davies. Doubtless Elizabethan literature would have been very different from what it is if the woman's movement [p. 141] had begun in the sixteenth century and not in the nineteenth.

What, then, it amounts to, if this theory of the two sides of the mind holds good, is that virility has now become self-conscious--men, that is to say, are now writing only with the male side of their brains.

p. 141: but the trouble was, that his feelings no longer communicated; his mind seemed separated into different chambers; not a sound carried from one to the other.

p. 141-142: but when one takes a sentence of Coleridge into the mind, it explodes and gives birth to all kinds of other ideas, and that is the only sort of writing of which one can say that it has the secret of perpetual life.

But whatever the reason may be, it is a fact that one must deplore. For it means--here I had come to rows of books by Mr. Galsworthy and Mr. Kipling--that some of the finest works of our greatest living writers fall upon deaf ears. Do what she will a woman cannot find in them that fountain of perpetual life which the critics assure her is there. It is not only that they celebrate male virtues,

p. 142: But one will rush away before that happens and hide in the gooseberry bushes, for the emotion which is so deep, so supple, so symbolical to a man moves a woman to wonder.

p. 142: Thus all their qualities seem to a woman, if one may generalise, crude and immature. They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.

p. 143: For one can hardly fail to be impressed in Rome by the sense of unmitigated masculinity; and whatever the value of unmitigated masculinity upon the state, one may question the effect of it upon the art of poetry. At any rate, according to the newspapers, there is a certain anxiety about fiction in Italy.

p. 143-144: The Fascist poem, one may fear, will be a horrid little abortion such as one sees in a glass jar [.] Two heads on one body do not make for length of life.

However, the blame for all this, if one is anxious to lay blame, rests no more upon one sex than upon the other. All seducers and reformers are responsible, Lady Bessborough when she lied to Lord Granville; Miss Davies when she told the truth to Mr. Greg. All who have brought about a state of sex-consciousness are to blame, and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age, before Miss Davies and Miss Clough were born, when the writer used both sides of his mind equally. One must turn back to Shakespeare then,

p. 144: One must turn back to Shakespeare then, for Shakespeare was androgynous; and so was Keats and Sterne and Cowper and Lamb and Coleridge. Shelley perhaps was sexless. Milton and Ben Jonson had a dash too much of the male in them. So had Wordsworth and Tolstoi. In our time Proust was wholly androgynous, if not perhaps a little too much of a woman. But that failing is too rare for one to complain of it, since without some mixture of the kind the intellect seems to predominate and the other faculties of the mind harden and become barren. However, I consoled myself with the reflection

First Edition

p. 145: Some collaboration has to take place in the mind between the woman and the man before the act of creation can be accomplished. Some marriage of opposites has to be consummated. The whole of the mind must lie wide open if we are to get the sense that the writer is communicating his experience with perfect fullness.

First Edition

p. 145: that tremendous stream.

Here, then,

p. 146: She [Mary Beaton] has asked you to follow her flying into the arms of a Beadle, lunching here, dining there, drawing pictures in the British Museum,

p. 146: "While she has been doing all these things, you no doubt have been observing her failings and foibles and deciding what effect they have had on her opinions. You have been contradicting her and making whatever additions and deductions seem good to you. That is all as it should be,

p. 147: No opinion has been expressed, you may say, upon the comparative merits of the sexes even as writers. That was done purposely, because, even if the time had come for such a valuation--and it is far more important at the moment to know how much money women had and how many rooms than to theorise about their capacities--even if the time had come I do not believe that gifts, whether of mind or character, can be weighed like sugar or butter, not even in Cambridge,

p. 147: that a Commander of the Bath will ultimately walk in to dinner behind a Master in Lunacy.

p. 147: where there are "sides," and it is necessary

p. 148: Are not reviews of current literature a perpetual illustration of the difficulty of judgment? "This great book," "this worthless book," the same book is called by both names.

p. 148: Even allowing a generous margin for symbolism, that five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate, that a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself

p. 150: of which great writings are born.

p. 151: By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle,

p. 152: let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.

p. 152: you will find that she is an inheritor as well as an originator, and has come into existence because women have come to have the habit of writing naturally;

p. 152-153: and that good writers, even if they show every variety of human depravity, are still good human beings.

p. 153: How to justify this instinct or belief I do not know, for philosophic words, if one has not been educated at a university, are apt to play one false.

p. 153: What is meant by "reality"? It would seem to be

p. 154: the world seems bared of its covering and given an intenser life. Those are the enviable people who live at enmity with unreality; and those are the pitiable who are knocked on the head

p. 154: So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality,

p. 154: So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality,

p. 154: The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality.

p. 156: "from Mr. John Langdon Davies. (1) Mr. John Langdon Davies warns women"

p. 156: "women cease to be altogether necessary."

p. 156: We have borne and bred and washed, and taught,

p. 157: at present in existence, and that, allowing that some had help, takes time.

(1) The Monks House typescript is nearly identical to the proof copy, with the exceptional passages confined to word order, punctuation and word division. The Monks House passage begins: <Perhaps> I thought, as I opened my purse, the looking glass theory (Rosenbaum 181).

(2) The Monks House typescript and the proof copy give identical readings (except for the placement of the parentheses). The passage is not included among the Monks House selected typescript passages, but Rosenbaum cites it in his introduction, p. xxx.

(3) The passage omitted from the first edition text was added in Woolf's hand to the Monks House typescript with only a single difference between typescript and proof copy--a word present in the typescript that is absent in the proof copy. The typescript reads: "She examined into their employments" (Rosenbaum 182).

(4) The passage in the Monks House typescript reads: "And this shape too is also largely traditional, <&> handed down to men by the men who made them" (Rosenbaum 182).

(5) The proof copy passage is identical to that in the Monks House typescript (Rosenbaum 183).

(6) The Vernon Lee reference is not present in the Monks House typescript. (Rosenbaum 183).

(7) The proof copy passage that Woolf omitted is nearly identical to the passage in the Monks House typescript, with these exceptions: in the Monks House typescript "I said" succeeds "That, however,"; "for Mr. A is the spiritual descendant of Lord Granville" is changed in the proof text to "Mr. A descends from Lord Granville"; and the Monks House "And then, I continued, he descends too from Oscar Browning," is emended in the proof text to: "And then, of course, he descends from Oscar Browning," (Rosenbaum 186).

(8) The Monks House typescript contains a biographical point omitted from the proof copy portrait of Mr. A's grandfather: he was "the anonymous gentleman who wrote for the Saturday Review." Other changes in the Monks House version of the proof copy passage on Mr. A, Miss Clough, Miss Davies, and Shakespeare are confined to punctuation (in the new paragraph, in the Monks House typescript, a comma follows each of the three adjectives describing the critic, biographer, and poet) and a typographic error ("had not know" for "had not known"), except for the following three instances: instead of the proof copy's "puts his grandfather's teaching very piously into practice" Woolf had earlier typed in the Monks House text "says in much the same manner 'And they can't do this!'"; the Monks House "And it is in protest against Miss Clough" etc. becomes in the proof text the qualified statement "It is partly in protest against Miss Clough" etc.; the new paragraph in the Monks House typescript begins "What, then, I began to fear, I thought, <shutting Mr. A &> glancing at a critic," in the proof copy reads "What, then, one must begin to fear, I thought, and glancing at a critic," (Rosenbaum 187)."puts his grandfather's teaching very piously into practice" Woolf had earlier typed in the Monks House text "says in much the same manner 'And they can't do this!'"; the Monks House "And it is in protest against Miss Clough" etc. becomes in the proof text the qualified statement "It is partly in protest against Miss Clough" etc.; the new paragraph in the Monks House typescript begins "What, then, I began to fear, I thought, <shutting Mr. A &> glancing at a critic," in the proof copy reads "What, then, one must begin to fear, I thought, and glancing at a critic," (Rosenbaum 187).

(9) The Monks House typescript differs from the proof copy in the following passages: "One might hazard a guess from reading Antony and Cleopatra that the prelude to creation [...] And the experience was agitated [...] One would not have had that feeling if Shakespeare had been interfering and checking and forcing his mind back. [ . ] it is presumptuous, it may be, even to make an image of what went on in that particular brain (Rosenbaum 192).

(10) The Monks House typescript differs from the proof copy in the following passages: While I have been talking I hope that you have been contradicting--making whatever additions and inferences <seemed good to you.> Many things are visible to you that are not visible to me and much that I think plain will seem to you questionable.
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Author:Gewirtz, Isaac
Publication:Woolf Studies Annual
Article Type:Critical essay
Geographic Code:4EUUK
Date:Jan 1, 2011
Words:32845
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