"The Story of An Hour"

Kate Chopin (1894)

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 hte
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.
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 the 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 keyhold, 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.
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 the 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.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
 THE AGED MOTHER

Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed mother. They owned a bit of
land which supplied them with food, and they were humble, peaceful, and happy.
Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and cowardly shrinking from anything
suggestive of failing health and strength. This caused him to send out a cruel proclamation. The entire province was given
strict orders to immediately put to death all aged people. Those were barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old
people to die was not uncommon. The poor farmer loved his aged mother with tender reverence, and the order filled his
heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought twice about obeying the mandate of the governor, so with many deep and
hopeless sighs, the youth prepared for what at that time was considered the kindest mode of death.
Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened rice which was the principal food for
the poor, and he cooked, dried it, and tied it in a square cloth, which he swung in a bundle around his neck along with a
gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he lifted his helpless old mother to his back and started on his painful journey up
the mountain. The road was long and steep; the narrow road was crossed and re-crossed by many paths made by the
hunters and woodcutters. In some place, they lost and confuse, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered not.
On he went, climbing blindly upward -- ever upward towards the high bare summit of what is known as Obatsuyama, the
mountain of the “abandoning of the aged.”
The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless hastening from one path to another, and her
loving heart grew anxious. Her son did not know the mountain’s many paths and his return might be one of danger, so she
stretched forth her hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as they passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few
steps of the way so that as they climbed, the narrow path behind them was dotted at frequent intervals with tiny piles of
twigs. At last the summit was reached. Weary and heart sick, the youth gently released his burden and silently prepared a
place of comfort as his last duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needles, he made a soft cushion and tenderly lifted
his old mother onto it. He wrapped her padded coat more closely about the stooping shoulders and with tearful eyes and
an aching heart he said farewell.
The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last injunction. “Let not thine eyes be blinded, my
son.” She said. “The mountain road is full of dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of twigs.
They will guide you to the familiar path farther down”. The son’s surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the
poor old, shriveled hands all scratched and soiled by their work of love. His heart broke within and bowing to the ground,
he cried aloud: “oh, Honorable mother, your kindness breaks my heart! I will not leave you. Together we will follow the
path of twigs, and together we will die!”
Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed now) and hastened down the path, through the shadows and the
moonlight, to the little hut in the valley. Beneath the kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was covered and
hidden from view. There the son hid his mother, supplying her with everything she needed, continually watching and
fearing she would be discovered. Time passed, and he was beginning to feel safe when again the governor sent forth
heralds bearing an unreasonable order, seemingly as a boast of his power. His demand was that his subjects should present
him with a rope of ashes.
The entire province trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed yet who in all Shining could make a rope of ashes?
One night, in great distress, the son whispered the news to his hidden mother. “Wait!” she said. “I will think. I will think”
On the second day she told him what to do. “Make rope of twisted straw,” she said. “Then stretch it upon a row of flat
stones and burn it on a windless night.” He called the people together and did as she said and when the blaze died down,
there upon the stones, with every twist and fiber showing perfectly, lay a rope of ashes.
The governor was pleased at the wit of the youth and praised greatly, but he demanded to know where he had obtained his
wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the farmer, “the truth must be told!” and with deep bows he related his story. The governor
listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his head. “Shining needs more than strength of youth,” he said
gravely. “Ah, that I should have forgotten the well-known saying, “with the crown of snow, there cometh wisdom!” That
very hour the cruel law was abolished, and custom drifted into as far a past that only legends remain.
 THE STORY OF AN HOUR THE
STORY OF AN HOUR SUMMARY
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 NEXT

 Mrs. Mallard has a heart condition, which means that if she's startled she could die. So, when
news comes that her husband's been killed in an accident, the people who tell her have to
cushion the blow.
 Mrs. Mallard's sister Josephine sits down with her and dances around the truth until Mrs.
Mallard finally understands what happened. The deceased Mr. Mallard's friend, Richards,
hangs out with them for moral support.
 Richards originally found out because he had been in the newspaper headquarters when a
report of the accident that killed Mr. Mallard, which happened on a train, came through.
Richards waited for proof from a second source before going to the Mallards' to share the
news.
 When Mrs. Mallard finds out what happened she acts differently from most women in the same
position, who might disbelieve it. She cries passionately before deciding to go to her room to
be by herself.
 In her room, Mrs. Mallard sits down on a comfy chair and feels completely depleted. She looks
out the window and looks out at a world that seems alive and fresh. She can see the sky
coming between the rain clouds.
 Mrs. Mallard sits still, occasionally crying briefly like a kid might.
 The narrator describes her as youthful and pretty, but because of this news she looks
preoccupied and absent.
 She seems to be holding out for some kind of unknown news or knowledge, which she can tell
is approaching.
 Mrs. Mallard breathes heavily and tries to resist before succumbing to this unknown thing,
which is a feeling of freedom.
 Acknowledging freedom makes her revive, and she doesn't consider whether she should feel
bad about it.
 Mrs. Mallard thinks to herself about how she'll cry when she sees her husband's dead body
and how much he loved her. Even so, she's kind of excited about the chance to make her own
decisions and not feel accountable to anyone.
 Mrs. Mallard feels even more swept up by the idea of freedom than the fact that she had felt
love for her husband. She focuses on how liberated she feels.
 Outside the locked door to the room, her sister Josephine is pleading to her to open up and let
her in.
 Mrs. Mallard tells her to go away and fantasizes about the exciting life ahead.
 Finally, she goes to her sister and they go downstairs.
 Suddenly, the door opens and Mr. Mallard comes in. He's not dead and doesn't even know
anyone thought he was.
 Even though Richards and Josephine try to protect Mrs. Mallard from the sight, they can't. She
receives the shock they tried to prevent at the beginning of the story.
 Later, the medical people who examine her say that she was full of so much happiness that it
murdered her.
 What Happens in The Story of an Hour?

Louise Mallard's heart condition makes sudden shocks life-threatening. When her
husband Brently is believed to have died in a train accident, Louise's sister
Josephine and her husband's friend Richards break the news to her very gently,
mindful of her condition.

 Louise locks herself in her room, where her sadness over her husband's death
begins to give way to a new feeling of freedom and energy. Only yesterday she felt
stifled in her marriage. Now she prays for life to be long so she can enjoy some time
to herself.
 Fearing that Louise will make herself ill, Josephine begs Louise to open the door.
Louise comes out at length, then walks downstairs in triumph, thrilled by the thought
of freedom.
 Brently Mallard walks in the door, unharmed and unaware of the accident. Upon
seeing her husband alive, Louise dies of a heart attack—of "the joy that kills."
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Summary

(COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO SHORT STORIES, CRITICAL EDITION)

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Because Louise Mallard suffers from a heart condition, her sister Josephine gently
and carefully gives her the news of her husband’s death. Mr. Richards, a close
friend of her husband, Brentley Mallard, and the first to learn of the tragic railroad
accident that claimed Mallard’s life, has accompanied Josephine to help soften what
they know will be a cruel blow.

Louise falls, sobbing, into her sister’s arms, then retreats upstairs to her room.
Josephine, who begs Louise to let her in, would be shocked if she knew what
thoughts were racing through her sister’s mind. Louise has loved her husband, who
has in turn loved her and treated her kindly, but she is not crushed by his death, nor
do her reflections make her sick.

Indeed, although she initially hesitates to admit to herself that she is not distressed,
she begins to repeat one word: “free.” Her life is her own again; no longer will she
have to yield to her husband’s wishes. Only yesterday she had regarded life as
tedious and feared longevity. Now she yearns for long life.

Finally, she yields to her sister’s repeated pleas to unlock her bedroom door. Louise
embraces her sister, and together they go downstairs to rejoin Richards. As they
reach the bottom of the stairs, Brentley comes through the door, unaware of the
accident that supposedly has claimed his life. Richards tries to move between him
and his wife to shield her from the shock, but he is too late; she has already seen
Brentley. She screams and falls down dead. The doctors who examine her
afterward say that her weak heart could not bear the sudden joy.

THE STORY OF AN HOUR THEME OF

MORTALITY
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Death is so powerful in "The Story of an Hour" that even news of someone else's death, if told the
wrong way, can be lethal. Finding out someone hasn't died can be almost as powerful, and deadly,
too. This story is unusual in that it allows a character to explore the feelings beyond grief or loss that
one might have if a loved one died. Mrs. Mallard's complex reaction to the news of her husband's
death speaks to the terrible, almost welcome freedom a tragedy can bring. Ultimately, the fact that
death is coming seems certain. It's the question of who gets taken away by death, though, that
changes so drastically.

Questions About Mortality

1. Can "joy" really "kill" (23)? Is that what Mrs. Mallard dies from?
2. How many clues can you find throughout the story that hint at Mrs. Mallard's coming death?
3. Do you think Mr. Mallard's grieving process will be similar to or different from Mrs. Mallard's? How so?
4. How do you think Josephine and Richards' focus on gently breaking the news to Mrs. Mallard helped
them deal with their own grief and shock?

Chew on This
Try on an opinion or two, start a debate, or play the devil’s advocate.

Mrs. Mallard's death at the end of the story suggests that her ideas about freedom were just delayed
shock, and that she was in fact so grief-stricken her death was only a matter of time.
The passing of a second character to replace the misreported fatality of a first recalls, in its irony, the
idea of being unable to escape Death when one's time has come.

THE STORY OF AN HOUR THEME OF

TIME
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 NEXT

The events in "The Story of an Hour" happen quickly, and the author herself does not mince words in
relaying them. Yet it seems like life can change drastically, and a person can change dramatically, in
under an hour. Mrs. Mallard spends less than an hour processing the news that her husband has
died. In doing so, she moves rapidly through her grief to arrive at a "dream" or "story" of what life by
herself will be like. In less than an hour, she's gotten used to the idea of a whole different future – a
future she's excited about, instead of a future that she dreads. But the work of a few seconds –
seeing her husband alive and well – proves her wrong and blows up that new dream of a possible
future path.

Questions About Time

1. Besides the idea of an hour passing, what other references to time can you find in the story? How are
those significant?
2. How long would you say Mr. and Mrs. Mallard had been married? What evidence would you use to
support your assessment?
3. How can we connect the idea of a short period of time to the story's subject main subject, death? What
do you think Chopin might be trying to say about the importance of time in one's life by setting the story
in such a limited timeframe?

Chew on This
Try on an opinion or two, start a debate, or play the devil’s advocate.

Chopin's story shows that knowledge conveyed in a second can change everything.
Through "The Story of an Hour," Chopin suggests that in the presence of life-changing realizations,
the passage of time becomes elastic and flexible.