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The Story of an Hour

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will - as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.

When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

←2→

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him - sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door - you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

←3

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

But Richards was too late.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of joy that kills.

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Comments

Submitted by admin on Thu, 03/13/2003 - 08:15

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good story

Submitted by admin on Sat, 11/15/2003 - 09:56

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chopin explains how life as a woman was in her time. a life were woman were controlled bythere husbands and how they werent free to do as they please. they were restriced. even though she was happy that her husband was alive, she had accepted the fact that he was dead and that she was finally FREE in the matter that she was able to live her life now, not her husbands life.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 12/16/2003 - 22:37

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The Story of an Hour This story was not like other stories that you usually read. It was not predictable at all. I love the vivid imagery throughout the whole story. I like this story because you can not really predict about what is going to happen. When you can predict, it usually ruins the story. It kept you wandering about how it was going to end. Overall, it was areal good story.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 12/16/2003 - 22:43

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It is true this is one of the best short stories that I have ever read. It is the way that it as been written, it makes you feel like you are there with the other players in the story feeling the same emotion that they are just as if you were in the same room as them. And that is way it is one of the best short stories.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 02/10/2004 - 05:38

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brill story

Submitted by admin on Tue, 02/10/2004 - 14:52

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The irony of this story was gteat.Chopin was an early writer who wrote so vividly and convincingly about the inner turmoil of a woman who had just lost her husband. The forces of heredity and fate determined her untimely death. The zinger ending is so superb. She is an early womens rights literary writer. She is great!

Submitted by admin on Sun, 04/25/2004 - 17:07

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This story is one of my favorite stories. I am doing a study on Kate Chopin and I had no idea that this was based on her mother and father. Her father was killed in a train reck, her mother was much younger and felt liberated by his death. This story explains the feelings of so many women that are contained by bad marriages. This is a well written short story and the fact that Chopin tackled this issue in the era that she was in only proves that she was a leading lady of her time.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 08/27/2004 - 14:58

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This story was ENTIRELY predictable. The author even included the giveaway from the BEGINNING that it should have been confirmed that the husband was dead! Wake up people!!! How many hints do you need? Still, it was a great story. Why? I say that the quality of a story should not be judged upon its predictability, and I feel the author, thru giving that hint, felt the same way. Why cant you? I love solving mysteries before they are exposed, and the author has enabled us to do that in the first part of the story. Should I now critisize it for being predictable? I think not. Excellent tale.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 09/15/2004 - 21:18

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There was even a second TELEGRAM to confirm his death-amazing. I only wish she did not die. So here is my own end to it: Mr Mallard opens the door... Ms. Mallard sees him;faints; was taken to the hopital; recovered and finally decides he is dead. Hence, she divorces him as her own second TELEGRAM to confirm it. ....ONYI....

Submitted by admin on Wed, 09/15/2004 - 21:58

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amazing

Submitted by admin on Wed, 09/22/2004 - 01:50

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I believe that louis mallards husband was not the antagonist of this story, but it was the victorian marriage!!!Therefore when she was happy that she was free, free from the victorian marriage not her husband, she had nothing against him!It was the way she was forced to live.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 10/17/2004 - 01:05

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i dont really know if louis had a heart attack because she was overjoyed that she thought her husband died or she died of grief because her husband didnt really die. the end of the story is hidden. im not sure if louis had a heart attack before her husband opened the door or upon seeing her husband still alive.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 01/08/2005 - 22:20

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nice story... it was our group report in humanities 1 at the university of the philippines. i just confused about the last line in the stiry- of joy that kills. is it joy of the death of her husband or joy seeing her husband alive? --=shella=--

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/14/2005 - 11:30

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You could feel her joy at being able to finally do what she wants to, almost an escape as Kate says to be free. Then to have that taken away by the reappearance of her husband. No wonder she died! Very well written, drew me in.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 03/02/2005 - 21:26

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wonderful story!love the sarcasm at the end"...joy that kills". Although she did love him, doesnt mean she loved the idea of being married(at that time and what it meant for women). She was sad that he had died...re-read to figure it out.Has no one ever been relieved, to an extent, that someone you loved is out of your hair for a bit?? A remarkable and advanced tale for that period...ver insightful.

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