Exercise 17 - Short Story
Read the story below and answer the questions at the end.
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 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 recognise 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 state 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.
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 her 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 that she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
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 a heart disease – of joy that kills.
Kate Chopin, ’The Story of an Hour’ in R. Bausch & R. V. Cassill, The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 7th Ed. Norton & Company, 2006
*save = ‘except’ *importunity = ‘something repeatedly asked for that causes irritation’
- Why do you think this may be considered a ‘feminist story’? Refer to material from the text to support your argument.
- How does the description of nature underscore the story’s theme?
- Who offers the explanation in the last phrase – of joy that kills, the doctors or the author? Give reasons for your answer.
- It is clear that there are no strong bonds of affection between Mrs Mallard and her husband, Brently Mallard. He had always loved her (he had never looked save with love upon her); (And yet she had loved him – sometimes. Often she had not). In other words, she does not return his unconditional love for her.
What is important in the story is that she will be able to live as she wishes. …This means that the theme of the story may be equality between men and women, and that women have the right to live their own lives.
What is crucial in the story is that his death allows her the freedom to assert herself as an individual. 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. These lines suggest that the theme of the story is self-assertion and rebellion against conventional forces in society that deny people the right to choose their own life. Since society traditionally has placed women in a subordinate position, the story is only indirectly and at a superficial reading a feminist story. We could rather say it is a story of individualism.
- Formulations like: she could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with new spring life; the delicious breath of rain was in the air; 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… have a strong symbolic effect. They suggest that there is a new awakening coming to her, a realisation that she can now shape her own future, unfettered by conventional chains.
- The last sentence is in indirect speech, referring to what the doctors said. Given the setting of the story, they are the source of the statement, and they have no reason not to believe that she was infinitely happy when she saw her husband walk into the house.
However, since we know how Mrs Mallard felt about her new-won freedom, we understand the deep irony in the word joy. Brent Mallard’s return did not bring joy but rather devastation and death.