The house itself sat well back in its ample green lawn, left fenceless after the manner of American village lawns. In the rear of the house there were many acres of
gardens and pasture where cattle stood about, looking in the distance like toy cows out of a Noah’s Ark.
Beyond the pasture was the steep hill they flattered with the name of “the mountain.” To the children it furnished an unfailing supply of Indians, replenished1 as
fast as they were slaughtered2.
Every now and then Sheila had to be captured and tied to a tree and danced around by little Polly and young Bret and their friends, bedecked with feathers from
Just as the terrified pale-face squaw was about to be given over to the torture the Indians would disappear, take off their feathers, rub the war mud off their noses,
and lay aside their barbarous weapons; then arming themselves with wooden guns, they would charge to Sheila’s rescue, fearlessly annihilating5 the wraiths6 of their
late selves.
One day when Sheila was bound to the tree she saw Bret stealing up to watch the game. He waved gaily7 to her and she nodded to him. Then the whim8 came to her to cease
burlesquing9 the familiar r?le and play it for all it was worth. She imagined herself really one of those countless10 women whom the Indians captured and subjected to
torment11. Perhaps some woman, the wife of a pioneer, had once met her hideous12 doom13 in this same forest. She fancied she saw her house in flames and Bret shot dead as he
fought toward her. She writhed14 and tugged15 at the imaginary and unyielding thongs16. She pleaded for mercy in babbling17 hysteria, and for a climax18 sent forth19 one sincere
scream of awful terror. If Dorothy’s mother had heard it she would have remembered the shriek20 of the little Ophelia.
Sheila noted21 that the redskins were silent. She looked about her through eyes streaming with fictional22 tears. She saw that Bret was plunging23 toward her, ashen24 with
alarm. The neighbors’ children were aghast and her own boy and girl petrified25. Then Polly and young Bret flung themselves on her in a frenzy26 of weeping sympathy.
Sheila began to laugh and Bret looked foolish. He explained:
“I thought a snake was coiled round you. Don’t do that again, in Heaven’s name.” That night he dreamed of her cry.
It was a long while before Sheila could comfort her children and convince them that it was all “pretend.”
After that, when they were incorrigible27, she could always cow them by threatening, “If you don’t I’ll scream.”
The children would have been glad to make little canoes from the bark of the birch, but Sheila would not let them peel off the delicate human-like skin. The tree meant
much to her, for she and Bret had been wont28 to climb up to it before there were any amateur Indians. Bret had carved their names on it in two linked hearts.
On the lawn in front of the house there was another birch-tree. It amused Bret to name the tree on the hill “Sheila” and the tree on the lawn “Bret.” And the
nearest approach he ever made to poetry was to pretend that they were longing29 for each other. He probably absorbed that idea from the dimly remembered lyric30 of the
pine-tree and the palm.
Sheila suggested that the birch from the lawn should climb up and dwell with the lonely tree on the heights. Bret objected that he and Sheila would never see them
then, for they made few such excursions nowadays.
It struck him as a better idea to bring “Sheila” down to “Bret.” He decided31 to surprise his wife with the view of them together. He chose a day when Sheila was to
take the children to a Sunday-school picnic. On his way to the office he spoke32 to the old German gardener he had inherited from his father. When Bret told him of his
inspiration the old man (Gottlieb Hauf, his name was) shook his head and crinkled his thin lips with the superiority of learning for ignorance. He drawled:
“You shouldn’t do so,” and, as if the matter were ended, bent33 to snip34 a shrub35 he was manicuring.
“But I want it,” Bret insisted.
Opposition37 always hardened Bret. He took the shears38 from the old man and stood him up. “You do as I tell you—for once.”
Gottlieb could be stubborn, too. “Und I tell you die Birke don’t vant it. She don’t like it down here.”
“The other birch-tree is flourishing down here.”
“Dot makes nuttink out. Die Birke up dere she like vere she is. She like plenty sun.”
“This one grows in the shade.”
“Diese Birke don’t know nuttink about sun. She alvays grows im Schatten.”
“Well, the other one would like the shade if it had a chance. You bring it down here.”
The old man shook his head stubbornly and reached for the shears.
Bret was determined39 to have his own way. “Is it my tree or yours?”
“She is your tree—but she don’t like. You move her, she dies.”
“Bosh! You do as you’re told.”
“All right. I move her.”
“To-day?”
“Next vinter.”
“Now!”
“Um Gotteswillen! She dies sure. Next vinter or early sprink, maybe she has a chence, but to move her in summer—no!”
“Yes!”
“Nein doch!”
Bret choked with rage. “You move that tree to-day or you move yourself out of here.”
Gottlieb hesitated for a long while, but he felt that he was too old to be transplanted. Besides, that tree up there was none of his own children. He consented with as
bad grace as possible. He moved the tree, grumbling40, and doing his best for the poor thing. He took as large a ball of earth with the roots as he could manage, but he
had to sever41 unnumbered tiny shoots, and the voyage down the mountain filled him with misgivings42.
When Bret came home that night the two trees stood close together like Adam and Eve whitely saluting43 the sunset. Over them a great tulip-tree towered a hundred feet in
air, and all aglow44 with its flowers like a titanic45 bridal bouquet46. When the bedraggled Sheila came back with the played-out children she was immeasurably pleased with
the thoughtfulness of the surprise.
The next morning Bret called her to the window to see how her namesake laughed with all her leaves in the early light. The two trees seemed to laugh together. “It’s
their honeymoon,” he said. When he left the house old Gottlieb was shaking his head over the spectacle. Bret triumphantly48 cuffed49 him on the shoulder. “You see! I
told you it would be all right.”
“Vait once,” said Gottlieb.
A few days before this Dorothy had called on Sheila to say that the church was getting up an open-air festival, a farewell to the congregation about to disperse50 for
the summer. They wanted to borrow the Winfield lawn.
Sheila consented freely. Also, they wanted to give a kind of masque. Masques were coming back into fashion and Vickery had consented to toss off a little fantasy,
mainly about children and fairies, with one or two grown-ups to hold them together.
Sheila thought it an excellent idea.
Also, they wanted Sheila to play the principal part, the mother of the children.
Sheila declined with the greatest cordiality.
Dorothy pleaded. Sheila was adamant51. She would work her head off and direct the rehearsals52, she said, but she was a reformed actress who would not backslide even for
the church.
Other members of the committee and even the old parson begged Sheila to recant, but she beamed and refused. Rehearsals began with Dorothy as the mother and Jim’s
sister Mayme as the fairy queen. Sheila’s children and Dorothy’s and a mob of others made up the rest of the cast, human and elfin.
Sheila worked hard, but her material was unpromising—all except her own daughter, whom she had named after Bret’s mother and whom she called “Polly” after her own.
When Vickery, who came down to see his work produced and saw little Polly, it was like seeing again the little Sheila whom he still remembered.
He told big Sheila of it, and her eyes grew humid with tenderness.
He said, “I wrote my first play for you—and I’d be willing to write my last for you now if you’d act in it.”
Sheila blessed him for it as if it were a beautiful obituary54 for her dead self. He did not tell her that he was writing her into his masterpiece, that she was posing
for him even now.
On the morning of the performance Miss Mayme Greeley woke up with an attack of hay-fever in full bloom. The June flowers had filled her with a kind of powder that went
off like intermittent55 skyrockets. She began to pack her trunk for immediate56 flight to a pollenless clime. It looked as if she were trying to sneeze her head into her
trunk. There was no possibility of her playing the fairy queen when her every other word was ker-choo!
Sheila saw it coming. Before the committee approached her like a press-gang she knew that she was drafted. She knew the r?le from having rehearsed it. Mayme’s costume
would fit her, and if she did not jump into the gap the whole affair would have to be put off.
These were not the least of the sarcasms57 fate was lavishing58 on her that her wicked past as an actress, which had kept her under suspicion so long, should be the means
of bringing the village to her feet; that the church should drive her back on the stage; that the stage should be a plot of grass, that her own children should play
the leading parts, and she be cast for a “bit” in their support.
Thus it was that Sheila returned to the drama, shanghaied as a reluctant understudy. The news of the positive appearance of the great Mrs. Winfield—“Sheila Kemble as
was, the famous star, you know”—drew the whole town to the Winfield lawn.
The stage was a level of sward in front of the two birches, with rhododendron-bushes for wings. The audience filled the terraces, the porches, and even the surrounding
trees.
The masque was an unimportant improvisation59 that Vickery had jingled60 off in hours of rest from the labor61 of his big play, “Clipped Wings.”
But it gained a mysterious charm from the setting. People were so used to seeing plays in artificial light among flat, hand-painted trees with leaves pasted on visible
fishnets, that actual sunlight, genuine grass, and trees in three dimensions seemed poetically62 unreal and unknown.
The plot of the masque was not revolutionary.
Dorothy played a mother who quieted her four clamoring children with fairy-stories at bedtime; then they dreamed that a fairy queen visited them and transported them
magically in their beds to fairyland.
At the height of the revel64 a rooster cock-a-doodle-did, the fairies scampered65 home, the children woke up to find themselves out in the woods in their nighties, and
they skedaddled. Curtain.
The magic transformation66 scene did not work, of course. The ropes caught in the trees and Bret’s chauffeur67 and Gottlieb Hauf had to get a stepladder and fuss about,
while the sleeping children sat up and the premature68 fairies peeked69 and snickered. Then the play went on.
Bret watched the performance with the indulgent contempt one feels for his unprofessional friends when they try to act. It puzzled him to see how bad Dorothy was.
All she had to do was to gather her family about her and talk them to sleep. Sheila had reminded her of this and pleaded:
“Just play yourself, my dear.”
But Dorothy had been as awkward and incorrigible as an overgrown girl.
To the layman70 it would seem the simplest task on earth—to play oneself. The acting71 trade knows it to be the most complex, the last height the actor attains72, if he
ever attains it at all.
Bret watched Dorothy in amazement73. He was too polite to say what he thought, since Jim Greeley was at his elbow. Jim was not so polite. He spoke for Bret when he
“Gee whiz! What’s the matter with that wife of mine? She’s put her kids to bed a thousand times and yet you’d swear she never saw a child in her life before. You’
d swear nobody else ever did. O Lord! Whew! I’ll get a divorce in the morning.”
The neighbors hushed him and protested with compliments as badly read and unconvincing as Dorothy’s own lines. At last Sheila came on, in the fairy-queen robes.
Everybody knew that she was Mrs. Winfield, and that there were no fairies, at least in Blithevale, nowadays.
Yet somehow for the nonce one fairy at least was altogether undeniable and natural and real. The human mother putting her chicks to bed was the unheard-of, the
unbelievable fantasm. Sheila was convincing beyond skepticism.
At the first slow circle of her wand, and the first sound of her easy, colloquial76, yet poetic63 speech, there was a hush75 and, in one heart-throb, a sudden belief that
such things must be true, because they were too beautiful not to be; they were infinitely77 lovely beyond the cruelty of denial or the folly78 of resistance.
Bret’s heart began to race with pride, then to thud heavily. First was the response to her beauty, her charm, her triumph with the neighbors who had whispered him
down because he had married an actress. Then came the strangling clutch of remorse79: What right had he to cabin and confine that bright spirit in the little cell of his
life? Would she not vanish from his home as she vanished from the scene? Actually, she merely walked between the rhododendron-bushes, but it had the effect of a mystic
escape.
There was great laughter when the children woke up and scooted across the lawn in their bed-gear, but the sensation was Sheila’s. Her ovation80 was overwhelming. The
women of the audience fairly attacked Bret with congratulations. They groaned, shouted, and squealed81 at him:
“Oh, your wife was wonderful! wonderful! wonderful! You must be so proud of her!”
He accepted her tributes with a guilty feeling of embezzlement82, a feeling that the prouder he was of her the more ashamed he should be of himself.
He studied her from a distance as she took her homage83 in shy simplicity84. She was happy with a certain happiness he had not seen on her face since he last saw her
taking her last curtain calls in a theater.
Sheila was so happy that she was afraid that her joy would bubble out of her in disgraceful childishness. With her first entrance on the grassy85 “boards” she had felt
again the sense of an audience in sympathy and in subjection, the strange clasp of hands across the footlights, even though there were no footlights. It was a double
triumph because the audience was Philistine86 and little accustomed to the theater. But she could feel the pulse of all those neighbors as if they had but one wrist and
she held that under her fingers, counting the leap and check of their one heart and making it beat as she willed.
The ecstasy87 of her power was closely akin47, in so different a way, to what Samson felt when the Philistines88 that had rendered him helpless called him from the prison
where he did grind, to make them sport:
“He said unto the lad that held him by the hand, Suffer me that I may feel the pillars whereupon the house standeth that I may lean upon them.” As he felt his
strength rejoicing again in his sinews, he prayed, “Strengthen me only this once, O God, that I may be avenged89 of the Philistines for my two eyes.”
Nobody could be less like Samson than Sheila, yet in her capacity she knew what it was to have her early powers once more restored to her. And she bowed herself with
all her might—“And the house fell.”
An almost inconceivable joy rewarded Sheila till the final spectator had italicized the last compliment. Then, just as Samson was caught under his own triumph, so
Sheila went down suddenly under the ruination of her brief victory.
She was never to act again! She was never to act again!
When Bret came slowly to her, the last of her audience, she read in his eyes just what he felt, and he read in her eyes just what she felt. They wrung90 hands in mutual91
“You were never so beautiful! You never acted so well!” and “If you liked me, that’s all I want.”
The next morning Bret woke to a new and busy day after a night of perfect oblivion. Sheila did not get up, as her new habit was, but she reverted93 to type. She said
that she had not slept and Bret urged her to stay where she was till she was rested.
Later, as he was knotting his tie, he glanced from the window as usual at the birches whose wedding he was so proud of. His hands paused at his throat and his fingers
He forgot that she had not risen with him. She lifted herself heavily from her pillow and came slowly to his side. She brushed back her heavy hair from her heavy eyes
and said, “What is it?”
“Look at the difference in the birches. ‘Bret’ is bright and fine and every leaf is shining. But look at ‘Sheila’!”
The Sheila tree seemed to have died in the night. The leaves drooped95, shriveled, turning their dull sides outward on the black branches. The wind, that made the other
tree glisten96 like breeze-shaken water, sent only a mournful shudder97 through her listless foliage98.
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收听单词发音
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1
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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2
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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4
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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5
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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6
wraiths
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| n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 )；（传说中人在将死或死后不久的）显形阴魂 | |
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7
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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9
burlesquing
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| v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的现在分词 ) | |
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10
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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11
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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12
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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13
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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14
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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17
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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18
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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21
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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23
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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24
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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25
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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26
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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28
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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30
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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31
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
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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33
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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34
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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36
snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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38
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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39
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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40
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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41
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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42
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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43
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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44
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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45
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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46
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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47
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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48
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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49
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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51
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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52
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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53
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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54
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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55
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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56
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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57
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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58
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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59
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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60
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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62
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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65
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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67
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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68
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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69
peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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70
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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71
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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72
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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73
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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74
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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75
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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78
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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80
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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81
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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83
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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84
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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85
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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86
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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87
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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88
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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90
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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92
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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93
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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97
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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98
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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