cleaning up the lesser1 one-night stands. The play that Sheila had rejected had become the corner-stone of Reben’s fortunes. It was as inartistic and plebeian2 and
reminiscent as apple pie. But the public loves apple pie and consumes tons of it, to the great neglect of marrons glacés.
That play was a commodity for which there is always a market. A great artist could adorn3 it, but it was almost actor-proof against destruction.
Even Dulcie Ormerod could not spoil it for its public. When she played it Batterson gnashed his teeth and Reben held his aching head, but there were enough injudicious
persons left to make up eight good audiences a week.
Dulcie “killed her laughs” by fidgeting or by reading humorously or by laughing herself. She lost the audience’s tears by the copiousness4 of her own. But she loved
the play and still “knew she was great because she wept herself.” When she laughed she showed teeth that speedily earned a place in the advertisement of dentifrice,
and when she wept, a certain sort of audience was overawed by the sight of a genuine tear. Real water has always been impressive on the stage.
By sheer force of longevity5 the play slid her up among the prominent women of the day. She stuck to the r?le for four years, and was beginning to hope to rival the
records of Joseph Jefferson, Denman Thompson, Maggie Mitchell, and Lotta.
The night the company played in Blithevale Bret and Eugene, Sheila, Dorothy and her Jim, made up a box-party.
Jim proclaimed that Dulcie was a “peach,” but he alluded6 less to the art she did not possess than to the charms she had. She was pretty, there was no question of
that—as shapely and characterless as a Bouguereau painting, as coarsely sweet as granulated sugar. Dorothy credited her with all the winsome7 qualities of the
character she assumed, and took a keen dislike to the actress who played the adventuress, an estimable woman and a genuine artist whose oxfords Dulcie was not fit to
Eugene and Sheila suffered from Dulcie’s utter falsehood of impersonation. Even Bret felt some mysterious gulf9 between Dulcie’s interpretation10 and Sheila’s as he
remembered it.
Sheila was afraid to speak her opinion of Dulcie lest it seem mere11 jealousy12. Eugene voiced it for her.
“To think that such a heifer is a star! Getting rich and getting admiration,” he growled13, “while a genius like Sheila rusts14 in idleness. It’s a crime.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Bret. “I cut her out of it.”
“Don’t you believe it, honey,” Sheila cooed. “I’d rather be starring in your home than earning a million dollars before the public.”
But somehow there was a clank of false rhetoric15 in the speech. It was lover’s extravagance, and even Bret felt that it could not quite be true, or that, if it were
true, somehow it ought not to be.
He felt himself a dog in the manger, yet he was glad that Sheila was not up there with some actor’s arms about her.
After the third act Dulcie sent the company-manager—still Mr. McNish—to invite Mrs. Winfield to come back at the end of the play.
Sheila had hoped to escape this test of her nerves, but there was no escape. She felt that if Dulcie were haughty16 over her success she would hate her, and if she were
not haughty and tried to be gracious she would hate her more.
Dulcie assumed the latter r?le and played it badly. She condescended17 as from a great height, patronized like a society patroness. Worse yet, she pawed Sheila and
called her “Sheila” and “dearie” and congratulated her on having such a nice quiet life in such a dear little village, while “poor me” had to play forty weeks a
year. Sheila wanted to scratch her big doll-eyes out.
On the way home Bret confessed that it rather hurt him to see a “dub like Dulcie rattling18 round in Sheila’s shoes.” The metaphor19 was meant better than it came out,
Bret invited Vickery to stop in for a bit of supper and Vickery accepted, to Bret’s regret. Sheila excused herself from lingering and left Bret to smoke out Vickery,
who was in a midnight mood of garrulity21. The playwright22 watched Sheila trudge23 wearily up the staircase, worn out with lack of work. He turned on Bret and growled:
“Bret, there goes the pitifulest case of frustrated24 genius I ever saw. It’s a sin to chain a great artist like that to a baby-carriage.”
Bret turned scarlet25 at the insolence26 of this, but Vickery was too feeble to be knocked down. He was leaner than ever, and his eyes were like wet buckeyes. His speech
was punctuated27 with coughs. As he put it, he “coughed commas.” Also he coughed cigarette-smoke usually. His friends blamed his cough to his cigarettes, but they knew
better, and so did he.
He was in a hurry to do some big work before he was coughed out. It infuriated him to feel genius within himself and have so little strength or time for its
expression. It enraged28 him to see another genius with health and every advantage kept from publication by a husband’s selfishness.
He was in one of his irascible spells to-night and he had no mercy on Bret. He spoke29 with the fretful tyranny of an invalid30.
“It’s none of my business, I suppose, Bret, but I tell you it makes me sick—sick! to see Sheila cooped up in this little town. New York would go wild over her—yes,
and London, too. There’s an awful dearth31 on the stage of young women with beauty and training. She could have everything her own way. She’s a peculiarly brilliant
artist who never had her chance. If she had reached her height and quit—fine! But she was snuffed out just as she was beginning to glow. It was like lighting32 a lamp
and blowing it out the minute the flame begins to climb on the wick.
“Dulcie Ormerod and hundreds of her sort are buzzing away like cheap gas-jets while a Sheila Kemble is here. She could be making thousands of people happy, softening
their hearts, teaching them sympathy and charm and breadth of outlook; and she’s teaching children not to rub their porridge-plates in their hair!
“Thousands used to listen to every syllable33 of hers and forget their troubles. Now she listens to your factory troubles. She listens to the squabbles of a couple of
nice little kids who would rather be outdoors playing with other kids all day, as they ought to be.
“It’s like taking a lighthouse and turning the lens away from the sea into the cabbage-patch of the keeper.”
“Go right on,” Bret said, with labored34 restraint. “Don’t mind me. I’m old-fashioned. I believe that a good home with a loving husband and some nice kids is good
enough for a good woman. I believe that such a life is a success. Where should a wife be but at home?”
“That depends on the wife, Bret. Most wives belong at home, yes. Most men belong at home, too. They are born farmers and shoemakers and school-teachers and chemists
and inventors, and all glory to them for staying there. But where did Christopher Columbus belong? Where would you be if he had stayed at home?”
“But Sheila isn’t a man!”
“Well, then, did Florence Nightingale belong at home? or Joan of Arc?”
“What about Jenny Lind and Patti?”
“They were singers.”
“And Sheila is a singer, only in unaccompanied recitative. Actors are nurses and doctors, too; they take people who are sick of their hard day’s work and they cure
’em up, give ’em a change of climate.”
“Oh no, it wasn’t.”
“Contented! hah! that’s a word we use for other people’s patience. Old-fashioned women were not contented. We say they were because other people’s sorrows don’t
bother us, especially when they are dead. But they mattered then to them. If you ever read the newspapers of those days, or the letters, or the novels, or the plays,
you’ll find that people were not contented in the past at any time.
“People used to say that laborers39 were contented to be treated like cattle. But they weren’t, and since they learned how to lift their heads they’ve demanded more
and more.”
Bret had been having a prolonged wrestle40 with a labor-union. He snarled41: “Don’t you quote the laboring-men to me. There’s no satisfying them!”
“And it’s for the good of the world that they should demand more. It’s for the good of the world that everybody should be doing his best, and getting all there is
in it and out of it and wanting more.”
“Is nobody to stay at home?”
“Of course! There’s my sister Dorothy—nicest girl in the world, but not temperamental enough to make a flea42 wink43. She’s got sense enough to know it. You couldn’t
drive her on the stage. Why the devil didn’t you marry her? Then you both could have stayed at home. You belong at home because you’re a manufacturer. I should stay
at home because I’m a writer. But a postman oughtn’t to stay at home, or a ship-captain, or a fireman.”
Vickery threw up his hands. “God forbid! I think that nine-tenths of the actresses ought to leave the stage and go home. Too many of them are there because there was
nowhere else to go or they drifted in by accident. Nice, stupid, fatheads who would be the makings of a farm or an orphan-asylum are trying to interpret complicated
r?les. Dulcie Ormerod ought to be waiting on a lunch-counter, sassing brakemen and brightening the lot of the traveling-men. But women like Mrs. Siddons and Ellen
Terry, Bernhardt and Duse and Charlotte Cushman and Marlowe and any number of others, including Mrs. Bret Winfield, ought to be traveling the country like missionaries
of art and culture and morality.”
“Morality!” Bret roared. “The stage is no place for a good woman, and you know it.”
“Oh, bosh! In the first place, what is a good woman?”
“A woman who is virtuous45 and honorable and industrious46 and—Well, you know what ‘good’ means as well as I do.”
“I know a lot better than you do, you old mud-turtle. There are plenty of good women on the stage. And there are plenty of bad ones off. There are more Commandments
than one, and more than one way for a woman to be bad. There are plenty of wives here in Blithevale whose physical fidelity47 you could never question, though they’re
simply wallowing in other sins. You know lots of wives that you can’t say a word against except that they are loafers, money-wasters, naggers of children, torturers
of husbands, scourges48 of neighbors, enemies of everything worth while—otherwise they are all right.
“They neglect their little ones’ minds; never teach them a lofty ideal; just teach them hatred49 and lying and selfishness and snobbery50 and spite and conceit51. They
make religion a cloak for backbiting52 and false witness. And they’re called good women. I tell you it’s an outrage53 on the word ‘good.’ ‘Good’ is a great word. It
ought to be used for something besides ‘the opposite of sensual’!”
“All right,” Bret agreed, “use it any way you want to. You’ll admit, I suppose, that a good woman ought to perpetuate54 her goodness. A good woman ought to have
children.”
“Yes, if she can.”
“And take care of them and sacrifice herself for them.”
“Why sacrifice herself?”
“So that the race may progress.”
“How is it going to progress if you sacrifice the best fruits of it? Suppose the mother is a genius of the highest type, a beautiful-bodied, brilliant-minded,
wholesome55 genius. Why should she be sacrificed to her children? They can’t be any greater than she is. Since genius isn’t inherited or taught, they’ll undoubtedly
be inferior. And at that they may die before they grow up. Why kill a sure thing for a doubtful one?”
“You don’t believe in the old-fashioned woman.”
“She’s still as much in fashion as she ever was. The old-fashionedest woman on record was Eve. She meddled56 and got her husband fired out of Paradise. And she never
had any stage ambitions or asked for a vote or wore Paris clothes, but she wasn’t much of a success as a wife; and as a mother all we know of her home influence was
that one of her sons killed the other and got driven into the wilderness57. You can’t do much worse than that. Even if Eve had been an actress and gone on the road, her
record couldn’t have been much worse, could it?”
Bret was boxing heavily and sleepily with a contemptuous patience. “You think women ought to be allowed to go gadding58 about wherever they please?”
“Of course I do! What’s the good of virtue59 that is due to being in jail? We know that men are more honest, more decent, more idealistic, more romantic, than women.
Why? Because we have liberty. Because we have ourselves to blame for our rottenness. Because we’ve got nobody to hide behind. The reason so many women are such liars
and gossips and so merciless to one another is because they are so penned in, because all the different kinds of women are expected to live just the same way after
they are married. But some of them are bad mothers because they have no outlet60 for their genius. Some of them would be better wives if they had more liberty.”
Bret was entirely61 unconvinced. “You’re not trying to tell me that the stage is better than the average village?”
“No, but I think it’s as good. There will never be any lack of sin. But the sin that goes on in harems and jails and hide-bound communities is worse than the sin of
free people busily at work in the splendid fields of art and science and literature and drama and commerce.
“I think Sheila belongs to the public. I don’t see why she couldn’t be a better wife and a better mother for being an eminent62 artist. And I like you, Bret, so much.
You’re as decent a fellow at heart as anybody I know. I hate to have it you, of all men, that’s crushing Sheila’s soul out of her. I hate to think that I introduced
you to her. And I let you cut me out.
“She wouldn’t have loved me if she’d married me, but, by the Lord Harry63! her name would be a household word in all the homes in the country instead of just one.”
Vickery dropped to a divan64 and lay outstretched, exhausted65 with his oration66. Bret sat with his lips pursed and his fingers gabled in long meditation67. At length he
spoke:
“I’m not such a brute68 as you think, ’Gene. I don’t want to sacrifice anybody to myself, least of all the woman I idolize. If Sheila wants to leave me and go back,
I’ll not hinder her. I couldn’t if I wanted to. There’s no law that enables a man to get out an injunction against his wife going on the stage. If she wants to go,
why doesn’t she?”
Vickery sat up on the couch and snapped: “Because she loves you, damn it! I’m madder at her than I am at you.” Then he fell back again, puffing69 his cigarette
spitefully.
Bret smoked slowly at a long cigar. He was thinking long thoughts.
A little later Vickery spoke again: “Besides, Sheila won’t say she wants to go back, for fear it would hurt your feelings.”
Bret took this very seriously. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Bret smoked his cigar to ash, then he rose with effort and solemnity, went to the door, and called, “Oh, Sheila!”?
From somewhere in the clouds came her voice—the beautiful Sheila voice, “Yes, dear.”
“Come to the stairs a minute, will you?”
“Yes, dear.”
Vickery had risen wonderingly. He could not see Sheila’s nightcapped head as she looked over the balustrade. He did not know that Sheila had been listening to his
“?’Gene here,” said Bret, “has been roasting me for keeping you off the stage. I want him to hear me tell you that I’m not keeping you off the stage. Do you want
to go on the stage, Sheila?”
Sheila’s voice was housewifely and matter-of-fact. “Of course not. I want to go to bed. And it’s time ’Gene was in his. Send him home.”
She heard Bret cry, “You see!” and heard his triumphant72 laughter as he clapped Vickery on the shoulder. Then she went to her room and locked herself in. The click of
the bolt had the sound of a jailer’s key. She was a prisoner in a cell, in a solitary73 confinement74, since her husband’s soul was leagues away from any sympathy with
hers. She paced the floor like a caged panther, and when the sobs75 came she fell on her knees and silenced them in her pillow lest Bret hear her. She had made her
renunciation and plighted76 her troth. She would keep faith with her lover though she felt that it was killing77 her. Her soul was dying of starvation.
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收听单词发音
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1
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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copiousness
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| n.丰裕，旺盛 | |
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longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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rusts
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| n.铁锈( rust的名词复数 )；（植物的）锈病，锈菌v.（使）生锈( rust的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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28
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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48
scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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50
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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backbiting
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| 背后诽谤 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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54
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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56
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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59
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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60
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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63
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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64
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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65
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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67
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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68
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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69
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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70
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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71
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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72
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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73
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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74
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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76
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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