作者：迪士尼
出版社：华东理工大学出版社有限公司
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
迪士尼大电影双语阅读.胡桃夹子与四个王国 The Nutcracker and the Four Realms试读：
CHAPTER 1
Pine cones. Cinnamon. Roasted chestnuts and crackling firewood. The scents mingled in the air, rising high and swirling with wisps of chimney smoke and snow flurries. For a moment, they wafted just below the gathering snow clouds, seeming to form their own billowy puff of Christmastime spirit. Then, with a thwoop, the scents, smoke, and snow all scattered against the mighty beat of an owl's wings.
The owl swooped down from the clouds toward the city below. If it noticed the scents drifting up from the cobble-stoned streets, it didn't show it. Rather, the owl flew along its path resolute and strong, dipping lower and flying so swiftly that its shadow seemed to skate across the snow-iced rooftops. Smoke puffed out from chimney stacks upon the rows and rows of buildings. The frozen River Thames danced with children ice-skating in the distance. And as the sun sank below the horizon, lamplighters used long poles to kindle streetlamps so storefronts and trinket peddlers were cast aglow in soft, warm light.
Candles flickered in windows. Shop owners adjusted ribbons on door wreaths. Men and women bundled their cloaks more tightly as they bustled this way and that, carrying presents and herding rosy-cheeked children toward home. Then, faintly in the distance, a church bell chimed, signaling the start of the most magical evening of all.
Christmas Eve, London.
Now, the owl wasn't much concerned with the hustle and bustle. It had eyes for only one thing: an evening snack.
There! It spotted its target — a tiny mouse scurrying along an attic window ledge. Father Christmas might be arriving that evening expecting cookies, but the owl thought a furry treat was just the thing.
The owl flew closer. Its shadow fell across the mouse. The owl swooped...
It missed!
In the nick of time, the mouse darted through a hole in the brick masonry beside the window and disappeared. The owl hooted in dismay. It landed on the window ledge and waited. It blinked. But the mouse didn't reemerge. After a long while, the owl hooted again and glided away, keeping its eyes peeled for another tasty morsel.
Inside the brick wall, the mouse scurried along a narrow tunnel just wide enough for a mouse to fit through. It was in search of its own tasty morsel. And in the dusty attics and shadowed cellars of London, while happy families were making merry and paying little attention to the nooks and crannies about them, there was always something worth scavenging just before dark.
The tunnel widened and a dim light shone at the end. The mouse burst out into a large attic room.
Squeak! There! Sitting in the center of the room was a scrumptious-looking biscuit. Why a freshly baked treat would be resting in its own little cleared space on the grimy floor of a cluttered attic, or how it had gotten there, weren't thoughts that crossed the mouse's mind. All it knew was that there was a delicious dinner a few feet away, and it wasn't going to let it slip through its paws.
As the mouse inched up to the biscuit, it never noticed the curious eyes watching it from the shadows. Eyes that were far keener and far craftier than the owl's.
“You really want to catch that mouse, Fritz?” Clara Stahlbaum whispered to her little brother. With her tangled hair and mussed dress, she was all but invisible in the corner. But her clever brown eyes shone.
“Yes!” Fritz insisted eagerly.
Clara smiled. Catching the mouse they'd heard scurrying about the attic at night was the only thing little Fritz had talked about — since three o'clock that afternoon.
She struck a match, illuminating both their faces. “Then this is how you do it,” she said confidently. “With science, mechanics, and a little bit of luck.”
She carefully lit a tea light candle. Playing with fire anywhere in the house — especially the attic — was strictly forbidden. But this wasn't playing. This was science, and she knew what she was doing.
Clara gingerly moved the candle under a miniature hot-air balloon — the first component of her brilliant contraption. Spread around the attic was a series of levers, pulleys, and ramps activated by balloons, balls, and toys, all positioned with precise calculation. And at the end of her invention was a basket, ready to drop over the unsuspecting mouse as soon as it nibbled the biscuit.
It was perfect. All her invention needed was the right touch to get it going.
“First, we've got energy,” she whispered to Fritz. “The heat from the candle makes the balloon rise.”
Fritz watched in wonder as the balloon rose and bumped into a ball waiting at the top of a wooden ramp.
“We get momentum from the ball,” Clara explained.
Tap. The ball knocked into a toy monkey.
“Which hits the monkey, who pivots onto the bellows.”
“Which blows the longboat.” Fritz could barely contain his excitement as a fireplace bellows began to puff out air, pushing along a toy boat on wheels.
“Giving us Newton's third law of physics,” Clara finished. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And with a little bit of luck ...”
Thwack! The longboat knocked into the basket, toppling it right over the mouse, biscuit and all!
“Mousetrap!” Fritz clapped his hands.
Clara beamed with pride as she and Fritz walked over to examine the tiny mouse captured beneath the basket. Her invention had been a stellar success, if she did say so herself.
“Fantastic,” she whispered. “I can't wait to show —”
Clara stopped speaking abruptly. Luckily, Fritz was so preoccupied with his furry new captive that he didn't notice. Didn't notice the pale ghost of sadness that crossed Clara's face, nor the hint of the word that hadn't yet crossed her lips.
“Mother,” Clara finished to herself softly.
It had been just a few short months since the children's mother, Marie, had passed away. The pain of loss was bitterly fresh, especially for fourteen-year-old Clara. She had been incredibly close to her mother. Marie's absence was still new enough that, at times, Clara would forget herself and call out for her from another room, or would anticipate showing her a new invention like the one she'd made now, only to realize she could not.
Of all the Stahlbaum children — Louise, the eldest; Clara, the middle child; and Fritz, their energetic younger brother — Clara had been the one to truly follow in their mother's footsteps. Marie had been an accomplished inventor, a tinkerer, as their family lovingly called it. And while Louise had inherited their mother's grace and poise, and Fritz her love of laughter, Clara alone had inherited her knack for inventing. Wheels and cogs, pistons and pulleys, levels and counterweights and gears — it all made sense to Clara. Like tiny pieces of the world that she could hold and manipulate and build to do great things. But her mother had been the real genius. She was able to make even the tiniest, most intricate contraptions come to life. Over the years, she had taught Clara everything she knew. Patiently. Lovingly. Piece by piece, gear by gear.
One of Clara's greatest joys had been completing a new invention and seeing the look of pride on her mother's face when it worked properly the very first time. But now, though the knowledge and tools remained, Clara couldn't help feeling that the joy — the spark that brought it all to life — had faded along with her mother.
“Do you think Father will let me keep him?” Fritz asked anxiously, still completely absorbed in the little mouse. “As a pet?”
Clara gave a half smile. Their father would most definitely not allow Fritz to keep the furry rodent as a family pet. But seeing her little brother so happy, and knowing that at least her invention had brought him excitement on this holiday that would feel so different this year, Clara didn't have the heart to tell him no.
Suddenly, the trapdoor in the attic floor flew open, knocking the basket askew and freeing the mouse. The tiny critter squeaked and scampered off, darting beneath a crate and back through a hole in the attic wall.
“Oh!” Fritz groaned in dismay. “We nearly had him! Can we try again? Can we?”
Before Clara could answer, a head popped up through the trapdoor. It was Mrs. Ashmore, the family cook.
“There you are!” the portly cook huffed. “Up and down I've been looking for you rascals. Worn out, I am.”
The cook sniffed the air. Thinking fast, Clara whisked the matches behind her back and out of sight. She watched nervously as the cook passed an eye around the attic, checking for signs of mischief.
“We were just catching a mouse,” Fritz explained.
The cook wiped her brow. “Well, I didn't bake your favorite biscuits to have them sitting lonely on the parlor table.”
“Ginger biscuits?” Fritz asked in delight.
“Yes, Master Fritz.” Mrs. Ashmore nodded. “Ginger biscuits. Quick, now. We have a lot to do before this evening.”
Clara and Fritz clamored down the attic ladder and into the hallway. They descended a long staircase, where their older sister, Louise, was waiting for them.
“Look at the state of you,” Louise scolded. She wiped a large smudge of dirt from Fritz's trousers.
“We were in the attic!” Fritz exclaimed. “Trying to catch a mouse with toys and momentum and matches —”
“Matches?” Louise asked sharply. Clara sucked in her breath.
“It was Clara's idea,” Fritz said quickly.
Clara shot Fritz a look while Louise's face grew stern. “Clara Stahlbaum, you know the dangers of matches in the house, especially the attic,” Louise scolded.
Clara didn't answer. Of course she knew the danger of matches. But she wasn't a novice — she was a tinkerer. And she always took proper safety measures when using dangerous tools for her contraptions. Like matches. Or knives. Sometimes a saw (which, her mother had promised, would remain a secret between them).
But for some reason, Louise thought of Clara's handiwork as child's play, when really, it was so much more.
Admittedly, Clara had the habit of getting into predicaments. Sometimes her complex contraptions would take over entire rooms of the house. Or her tinkering tools would accidentally get left in places where people might step or sit on them. Without fail, Louise would point out the grease streaking Clara's hair and the oil staining her dress just before the family was supposed to go somewhere important. It was in those moments that Louise would insist it was mad for a young lady like Clara to spend so much time tinkering.
But Mother never made me feel ashamed, Clara thought. Instead, her mother had always smiled and gently helped Clara clean the grime from her hair, and had been patient when a room was off-limits because of an invention in progress. Her mother understood her the way no one else could. Being scolded by Louise like a little child playing recklessly, when her tinkering was anything but playing, stung.
“No harm done,” Mrs. Ashmore interceded for them. “I made sure of that.”
Louise frowned. “They shouldn't have been up there in the first place. Come. Father is waiting for us in the parlor.”
With a whoop, Fritz bounded down the hall. Clara and Louise followed behind, a bit more decorously. Clara cast a sideways glance at Louise. Her older sister didn't seem truly cross. She looked more preoccupied than anything. Clara's resentment softened. She figured she knew what was on Louise's mind: what Christmas surprise did their father have waiting for them just a few rooms away?
Their mother had always had a way of bringing the family parlor to life like a Christmastime forest. She'd hang fresh pine garlands from the mantel and tables, and arrange shiny red ornaments upon the tree branches so that they twinkled like glowing fireflies. “It's like a picture from a storybook!” Clara would always exclaim. Her mother would smooth Clara's hair, kiss her head, and say, “Yes, my darling. It's imagination brought to life.”
This year, Clara hadn't even been sure they would decorate for Christmas. They had only just removed the mourning wreath from their door, and black lace still covered her mother's vanity mirror. But their father had promised to take care of everything: to put up the tree, hang the stockings, and even drape the garlands just as their mother had. He had promised his children that Christmas would still be magical, because that was something their mother had wanted very, very much.
And in her heart of hearts, Clara hoped that, somehow, her father was right.
Fritz raced up to the parlor doors and burst through. Clara and Louise followed.
“Well, well!” Charles Stahlbaum greeted his children from where he was perched precariously on a chair, positioning the star at the top of the tree. “What about this?”
He hopped down and gestured to the tree with a flourish. Clara and her siblings stopped. They stared.
It ... wasn't what Clara had been expecting.
Garlands and ribbons were draped about the room, but rather thinly, not at all like a wintertime forest. A wreath hung slightly askew upon the mantel beneath a portrait of the children's late mother. The lopsided tree tilted a bit too far to the left. The ornaments hung a bit haphazardly. Clara could tell her father had tried hard. But it was all just a bit ... off.
“It's — wonderful, Father!” Louise forced a smile.
Mr. Stahlbaum looked ruefully back to the tree. “Well, with a few adjustments ...”
“That's not how Mother did it,” Fritz blurted out.
Clara shushed Fritz. But it was too late. Mr. Stahlbaum's shoulders slumped. They all knew Fritz was right.
“Well,” Mr. Stahlbaum said huskily. He tried to give a small laugh. “Come help me then, Fritz.”
The children gathered around the tree and helped their father adjust the delicate ornaments along the branches. Louise stepped up on the chair to straighten the star, and Clara fixed the ribbons and garlands about the room. Soon the parlor looked at least more presentable, if not perfect.
“Now, children.” Mr. Stahlbaum clasped his hands. “I have some presents.”
“Presents!” Fritz cheered.
“But it's not Christmas Day.” Louise cocked her head.
Clara watched curiously as her father picked up three beautifully wrapped boxes from under the tree. Was this their father's way of trying to make the evening merry?
“They're special presents,” Mr. Stahlbaum said slowly. “From your mother.”
Silence.
“Your mother wanted to — she wanted you to have something special to remember her by.” Mr. Stahlbaum was struggling to find the words. “And she asked me to give them to you on Christmas Eve.”
The children hesitantly took hold of their presents. Clara felt a rush of emotion with the weight of the gift in her hands. Did Mother wrap this herself? she wondered. Did she hold this in her hands, knowing I would, too, after she was gone?
Fritz opened his present first. He tore off the paper, revealing ten toy tin soldiers. The sadness of the moment flitted away from his expression, replaced with giggles of delight. These were just the tin soldiers he'd shown his mother in the toy-store window! He lined them up, preparing them for battle.
Next was Louise. She sat gracefully upon the sofa and opened her gift box. When she saw what was inside, she gasped.
“What is it?” Clara asked.
“It's Mother's favorite,” Louise replied, pulling out a soft green gown edged in delicate lace.
Clara's eyes grew wide. It was the dress their mother had worn last Christmas. Her gaze drifted as the memory flooded back — how she'd clamored into the parlor along with Fritz, carrying baskets of decorations. They'd found their mother waiting for them beside the tree, dressed in the beautiful gown. Elegant and regal, like a queen.
“So it is,” Mr. Stahlbaum told Louise. “But I can't, can I?” Louise asked.
“You can,” their father assured her. “She very much wanted you to.”
Louise stood and held the lovely gown against her body. “Oh, it's beautiful! Shall I wear it to the party?”
Clara felt a tightness in her chest. The party. Just hearing it mentioned made it feel all the more real: in just a short while, they would be headed to Godfather Drosselmeyer's house for his annual Christmas ball.
“I think that's exactly what it's for,” Mr. Stahlbaum told Louise.
Clara sighed. I wish we didn't have to go, she thought.
Normally, Clara looked forward to this particular party all year long. After all, the celebration was something her mother and godfather had invented together, back when Marie was just a young girl being raised by Drosselmeyer on his estate.
In fact, Drosselmeyer was a world-renowned inventor, and not just of celebrations. He was an inventor of all sorts of things, big and small. Horseless carriages, mechanized toys, even flying apparatuses — his entire estate was a menagerie of mechanical wonders, all carefully crafted by him and his protégé, Marie. He had taught Marie everything she knew about tinkering, and in turn, they had both taught Clara. Clara had spent many, many happy hours with her mother and Godfather Drosselmeyer, learning the tricks of the trade in his fabulous workshop.
But the Christmas party was the most special time of all. It was the one night a year when hundreds of guests were welcomed into his majestic ballroom to marvel at his collection and delight in holiday revelry — a night filled with wonder and cheer and even a little magic. It had been the celebration Clara loved most to share with her family, especially her mother.
But without Mother, how can it be the same? Clara thought.
She swallowed and put on a brave face. Everyone was trying so hard to make tonight special. Her father was trying. Louise was trying. Even Fritz still seemed to be holding on to an invisible golden thread of holiday magic that kept the entire evening from unraveling. Clara had to try, too. For them.
She nervously turned her gift over in her hands. This was it.
The final treasure her mother could ever give her. “Go on, Clara,” her father encouraged. “It's okay.”
Holding her breath, Clara peeled away the paper. The wrapping fell apart easily and fluttered to the chair. And inside was ... was ...
“An egg?” Clara asked, bewildered.
Her gift was an ornate metal egg. Intricate patterns of spirals and flourishes were etched into the casing. And a seam wrapped around the middle, sealed shut with a six-pointed star lock.
“Isn't that pretty, Clara?” Louise asked.
Clara wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The egg was beautiful, yes. But she couldn't help feeling disappointed that it wasn't something ... more. Not more valuable. But more meaningful. For a fleeting moment, she'd hoped that her mother's final gift would be a message or a memory or even a recording of her voice — perhaps something they had been working on together before Marie had grown ill. The egg-shaped box was lovely. But it didn't feel right.
“It's — yes, it's beautiful,” Clara said finally. She tried to open it. “But it's locked.”
“There's probably a key somewhere,” Louise offered. She rummaged through the wrapping paper. As she did so, a sealed note fluttered to the floor. It was addressed to Clara, in her mother's
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