章节正文
when she was there beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the
unpleasant, pricking garments from her, and for the first time in
her life she stood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun,
the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that invited her.
How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky!
how delicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its
eyes in a familiar world that it had never known.
The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled
like serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was
chill, but she walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her
white body and reached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch
of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close
embrace.
She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far
out, and recalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being
unable to regain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on
and on, thinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed
when a little child, believing that it had no beginning and no end.
Her arms and legs were growing tired.
She thought of Leonce and the children. They were a part of
her life. But they need not have thought that they could possess
her, body and soul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed,
perhaps sneered, if she knew! "And you call yourself an artist!
What pretensions, Madame! The artist must possess the courageous
soul that dares and defies."
Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her.
"Good-by--because I love you." He did not know; he did not
understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet
would have understood if she had seen him--but it was too late; the
shore was far behind her, and her strength was gone.
She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for
an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her father's voice and her
sister Margaret's. She heard the barking of an old dog that was
chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer
clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees,
and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.
Beyond the Bayou
The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on
which La Folle's cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay
a big abandoned field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou
supplied them with water enough. Through the woods that spread
back into unknown regions the woman had drawn an imaginary line,
and past this circle she never stepped. This was the form of her
only mania.
She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her
real name was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called
her La Folle, because in childhood she had been frightened
literally "out of her senses," and had never whollyregained them.
It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all
day in the woods. Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with
powder and crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of
Jacqueline's mother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight
had stunned her childish reason.
She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the
quarters had long since been removed beyond her sight and
knowledge. She had more physical strength than most men, and made
her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like the best of them.
But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing,
save what her morbid fancy conceived.
People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and
they thought nothing of it. Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did
not wonder that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood
upon her side of it, wailing and lamenting.
P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a
middle-aged man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him,
and a little son whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own.
She called him Cheri, and so did every one else because she did.
None of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They
had each and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her
wondrous stories of things that always happened "yonda, beyon' de
bayou."
But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri
did, nor rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor
fallen asleep in her arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did
such things now, since he had become the proud possessor of a gun,
and had had his black curls cut off.
That summer--the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls
tied with a knot of red ribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou
that even the little children at Bellissime were able to cross it
on foot, and the cattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La
Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she loved these dumb
companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, and to
hear them browsing by night up to her own enclosure.
It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The
men had flocked to a neighboring village to do their week's
trading, and the women were occupied with household affairs,--La
Folle as well as the others. It was then she mended and washed her
handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did her baking.
In this last employment she never forgot Cheri. To-day
she had fashioned croquignoles of the most fantastic and
alluring shapes for him. So when she saw the boy come trudging
across the old field with his gleaming little new rifle on his
shoulder, she called out gayly to him, "Cheri! Cheri!"
But Cheri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight
to her. His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an
orange that he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which
had been given that day up at his father's house.
He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied
his pockets, La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled
hands on her apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him
as, with his cakes in his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back
of the cabin, and disappeared into the wood.
He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun
out there.
"You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?" he had
inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter.
"Non, non!" the woman laughed. "Don't you look fo' no deer, Cheri.
Dat's too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel
fo' her dinner to-morrow, an' she goin' be satisfi'."
"One squirrel ain't a bite. I'll bring you mo' 'an one, La
Folle," he had boasted pompously as he went away.
When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy's
rifle close to the wood's edge, she would have thought nothing of
it if a sharp cry of distress had not followed the sound.
She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had
been plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her
trembling limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the
ominous report had come.
It was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon
the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned
piteously:--
"I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!"
"Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside
him. "Put you' arm 'roun' La Folle's nake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin';
dat goin' be nuttin'." She lifted him in her powerful arms.
Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had
stumbled,--he did not know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged
somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand.
Now, with his head upon the woman's shoulder, he moaned and wept
with pain and fright.
"Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can' stan' it, La Folle!"
"Don't cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!" the woman
spoke soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides.
"La Folle goin' mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin' come make
mon Cheri well agin."
She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with
her precious burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side
to side. A terrible fear was upon her, --the fear of the world
beyond the bayou, the morbid and insane dread she had been under
since childhood.
When she was at the bayou's edge she stood there, and shouted
for help as if a life depended upon
it:--
"Oh, P'tit Maitre! P'tit Maitre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!"
No voice responded. Cheri's hot tears were scalding her neck.
She called for each and every one upon the place, and still no
answer came.
She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained
unheard or unheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all
the while Cheri moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to
his mother.
La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme
terror was upon her. She clasped the child close against her
breast, where he could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer.
Then shutting her eyes, she ran suddenly down the shallow bank of
the bayou, and never stopped till she had climbed the opposite
shore.
She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes.
Then she plunged into the footpath through the trees.
She spoke no more to Cheri, but muttered constantly, "Bon
Dieu, ayez pitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!"
Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear
and smooth enough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly
against the sight of that unknown and terrifying world.
A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she
neared the quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.
"La Folle!" she screamed, in her piercingtreble. "La Folle
done cross de bayer!"
Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.
"Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!"
Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their
arms, flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring
spectacle. Most of them shuddered with superstitious dread of what
it might portend. "She totin' Cheri!" some of them shouted.
Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at
her heels, only to fall back with new terror when she turned her
distorted face upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva
had gathered in a white foam on her black lips.
Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with
his family and guests upon the gallery.
"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look
her yonda totin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first
which they had of the woman's approach.
She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her
eyes were fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily,
as a tired ox.
At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted,
she laid the boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had
looked red to La Folle suddenly turned black,--like that day she
had seen powder and blood.
She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could
reach her, she fell heavily to the ground.
When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again,
in her own cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in
through the open door and windows, gave what light was needed to
the old black mammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of
fragrant herbs. It was very late.
Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her,
had gone again. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor
Bonfils, who said that La Folle might die.
But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and
unpleasant, pricking garments from her, and for the first time in
her life she stood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun,
the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that invited her.
How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky!
how delicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its
eyes in a familiar world that it had never known.
The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled
like serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was
chill, but she walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her
white body and reached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch
of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close
embrace.
She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far
out, and recalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being
unable to regain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on
and on, thinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed
when a little child, believing that it had no beginning and no end.
Her arms and legs were growing tired.
She thought of Leonce and the children. They were a part of
her life. But they need not have thought that they could possess
her, body and soul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed,
perhaps sneered, if she knew! "And you call yourself an artist!
What pretensions, Madame! The artist must possess the courageous
soul that dares and defies."
Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her.
"Good-by--because I love you." He did not know; he did not
understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet
would have understood if she had seen him--but it was too late; the
shore was far behind her, and her strength was gone.
She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for
an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her father's voice and her
sister Margaret's. She heard the barking of an old dog that was
chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer
clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees,
and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.
Beyond the Bayou
The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on
which La Folle's cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay
a big abandoned field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou
supplied them with water enough. Through the woods that spread
back into unknown regions the woman had drawn an imaginary line,
and past this circle she never stepped. This was the form of her
only mania.
She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her
real name was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called
her La Folle, because in childhood she had been frightened
literally "out of her senses," and had never whollyregained them.
It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all
day in the woods. Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with
powder and crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of
Jacqueline's mother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight
had stunned her childish reason.
She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the
quarters had long since been removed beyond her sight and
knowledge. She had more physical strength than most men, and made
her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like the best of them.
But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing,
save what her morbid fancy conceived.
People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and
they thought nothing of it. Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did
not wonder that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood
upon her side of it, wailing and lamenting.
P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a
middle-aged man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him,
and a little son whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own.
She called him Cheri, and so did every one else because she did.
None of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They
had each and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her
wondrous stories of things that always happened "yonda, beyon' de
bayou."
But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri
did, nor rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor
fallen asleep in her arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did
such things now, since he had become the proud possessor of a gun,
and had had his black curls cut off.
That summer--the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls
tied with a knot of red ribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou
that even the little children at Bellissime were able to cross it
on foot, and the cattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La
Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she loved these dumb
companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, and to
hear them browsing by night up to her own enclosure.
It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The
men had flocked to a neighboring village to do their week's
trading, and the women were occupied with household affairs,--La
Folle as well as the others. It was then she mended and washed her
handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did her baking.
In this last employment she never forgot Cheri. To-day
she had fashioned croquignoles of the most fantastic and
alluring shapes for him. So when she saw the boy come trudging
across the old field with his gleaming little new rifle on his
shoulder, she called out gayly to him, "Cheri! Cheri!"
But Cheri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight
to her. His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an
orange that he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which
had been given that day up at his father's house.
He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied
his pockets, La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled
hands on her apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him
as, with his cakes in his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back
of the cabin, and disappeared into the wood.
He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun
out there.
"You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?" he had
inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter.
"Non, non!" the woman laughed. "Don't you look fo' no deer, Cheri.
Dat's too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel
fo' her dinner to-morrow, an' she goin' be satisfi'."
"One squirrel ain't a bite. I'll bring you mo' 'an one, La
Folle," he had boasted pompously as he went away.
When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy's
rifle close to the wood's edge, she would have thought nothing of
it if a sharp cry of distress had not followed the sound.
She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had
been plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her
trembling limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the
ominous report had come.
It was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon
the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned
piteously:--
"I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!"
"Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside
him. "Put you' arm 'roun' La Folle's nake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin';
dat goin' be nuttin'." She lifted him in her powerful arms.
Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had
stumbled,--he did not know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged
somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand.
Now, with his head upon the woman's shoulder, he moaned and wept
with pain and fright.
"Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can' stan' it, La Folle!"
"Don't cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!" the woman
spoke soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides.
"La Folle goin' mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin' come make
mon Cheri well agin."
She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with
her precious burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side
to side. A terrible fear was upon her, --the fear of the world
beyond the bayou, the morbid and insane dread she had been under
since childhood.
When she was at the bayou's edge she stood there, and shouted
for help as if a life depended upon
it:--
"Oh, P'tit Maitre! P'tit Maitre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!"
No voice responded. Cheri's hot tears were scalding her neck.
She called for each and every one upon the place, and still no
answer came.
She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained
unheard or unheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all
the while Cheri moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to
his mother.
La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme
terror was upon her. She clasped the child close against her
breast, where he could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer.
Then shutting her eyes, she ran suddenly down the shallow bank of
the bayou, and never stopped till she had climbed the opposite
shore.
She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes.
Then she plunged into the footpath through the trees.
She spoke no more to Cheri, but muttered constantly, "Bon
Dieu, ayez pitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!"
Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear
and smooth enough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly
against the sight of that unknown and terrifying world.
A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she
neared the quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.
"La Folle!" she screamed, in her piercingtreble. "La Folle
done cross de bayer!"
Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.
"Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!"
Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their
arms, flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring
spectacle. Most of them shuddered with superstitious dread of what
it might portend. "She totin' Cheri!" some of them shouted.
Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at
her heels, only to fall back with new terror when she turned her
distorted face upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva
had gathered in a white foam on her black lips.
Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with
his family and guests upon the gallery.
"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look
her yonda totin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first
which they had of the woman's approach.
She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her
eyes were fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily,
as a tired ox.
At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted,
she laid the boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had
looked red to La Folle suddenly turned black,--like that day she
had seen powder and blood.
She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could
reach her, she fell heavily to the ground.
When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again,
in her own cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in
through the open door and windows, gave what light was needed to
the old black mammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of
fragrant herbs. It was very late.
Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her,
had gone again. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor
Bonfils, who said that La Folle might die.
But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and
- absolutely [´æbsəlu:tli]
ad.绝对地；确实 (初中英语单词) - breeze [bri:z] n.微风；不费力的事 (初中英语单词)
- opening [´əupəniŋ] n.开放；开端 a.开始的 (初中英语单词)
- terror [´terə] n.恐怖；惊骇 (初中英语单词)
- meadow [´medəu] n.草地；牧场 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- stream [stri:m] n.河 vi.流出；飘扬 (初中英语单词)
- circle [´sə:kəl] n.圆圈 v.环绕；盘旋 (初中英语单词)
- childhood [´tʃaildhud] n.幼年(时代)；早期 (初中英语单词)
- wholly [´həul-li] ad.完全，十足；统统 (初中英语单词)
- childish [´tʃaildiʃ] a.孩子的；幼稚的 (初中英语单词)
- physical [´fizikəl] a.物质的；有形的 (初中英语单词)
- tobacco [tə´bækəu] n.烟草(叶)；卷烟 (初中英语单词)
- pasture [´pɑ:stʃə] n.牧场；放牧 v.吃(草) (初中英语单词)
- neighboring [´neibəriŋ] a.邻近的；接壤的 (初中英语单词)
- employment [im´plɔimənt] n.工作；职业；雇用 (初中英语单词)
- youngster [´jʌŋstə] n.年轻人；小伙子；少年 (初中英语单词)
- squirrel [´skwirəl] n.松鼠 (初中英语单词)
- distress [di´stres] n.痛苦 vt.使苦恼 (初中英语单词)
- constantly [´kɔnstəntli] ad.经常地；不断地 (初中英语单词)
- shallow [´ʃæləu] a.肤浅的；表面的 (初中英语单词)
- sweeping [´swi:piŋ] a.掠过的 n.扫除；清除 (高中英语单词)
- regain [ri´gein] vt.收回；恢复 (高中英语单词)
- cavalry [´kævəlri] n.骑兵(部队) (高中英语单词)
- imaginary [i´mædʒinəri] a.想象的；虚构的 (高中英语单词)
- plantation [plæn´teiʃən] n.种植园；栽植；移民 (高中英语单词)
- crimson [´krimzən] a.&n.深(紫)红(的) (高中英语单词)
- solitary [´sɔlitəri] a.独居的；孤独的 (高中英语单词)
- fantastic [fæn´tæstik] a.奇异的；荒谬的 (高中英语单词)
- withdrew [wið´dru:] withdraw的过去式 (高中英语单词)
- hurried [´hʌrid] a.仓促的，慌忙的 (高中英语单词)
- insane [in´sein] a.患神经病的；疯狂的 (高中英语单词)
- startling [´stɑ:tliŋ] a.惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- desperately [´despəritli] ad.绝望地；拼命地 (高中英语单词)
- consciousness [´kɔnʃəsnis] n.意识；觉悟；知觉 (高中英语单词)
- crescent [´kresənt] n.月牙 a.新月形的 (英语四级单词)
- experienced [ik´spiəriənst] a.有经验的；熟练的 (英语四级单词)
- whence [wens] ad.从何处；从那里 (英语四级单词)
- pathway [´pɑ:θwei] n.小路 (英语四级单词)
- superstitious [,sju:pə´stiʃəs] a.迷信的 (英语四级单词)
- daring [´deəriŋ] a.&n.勇敢(的) (英语四级单词)
- stairway [´steəwei] n.楼梯 (英语四级单词)
- mademoiselle [,mædəmə´zel] n.小姐；法国女教师 (英语六级单词)
- sycamore [´sikəmɔ:] n.美国梧桐；枫树 (英语六级单词)
- abandoned [ə´bændənd] a.被抛弃的；无约束的 (英语六级单词)
- resolutely [´rezəlju:tli] ad.坚决地；果断地 (英语六级单词)
- restlessly [´restlisli] ad.不安定地；烦躁地 (英语六级单词)
- despairing [di´speəriŋ] a.感到绝望的 (英语六级单词)
- piercing [´piəsiŋ] a.刺(贯)穿的；尖刻的 (英语六级单词)
- treble [´trebəl] a.&n.三倍(重)的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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