“The Story of an Hour” is a short story by Kate Chopin. It was first published in 1894 and is one of her most famous works. Enjoy this retelling that aims to use a soothing tone and a contemporary setting.
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard had a heart condition, everyone was extra careful about breaking the news of her husband’s death.
It was her sister, Josephine, who told her. She used broken sentences and hints, revealing the truth bit by bit. Mr. Mallard’s friend, Richards, was there too. He’d been at the newspaper office when the news of the train accident came in, with Brently Mallard’s name listed among the deceased. He had double-checked the information with another telegram before rushing over to make sure she heard it from someone gentle and caring.
Mrs. Mallard didn’t react like most women might. She didn’t freeze or deny it. Instead, she cried wildly in her sister’s arms. Once her initial storm of grief had passed, she went to her room alone. She didn’t want anyone following her.
She sat down in a comfortable chair by the open window, feeling utterly exhausted. She looked out at the trees, vibrant with new spring life. The air smelled like rain. She could hear a peddler shouting his wares on the street below, a distant song, and the chirping of sparrows.
Patches of blue sky peeked through the clouds. She sat there, motionless except for the occasional sob that shook her body like a child crying in its sleep.
Mrs. Mallard was young, with a calm, fair face that hinted at a life of restraint and strength. But now, her eyes were empty, staring into the distance. She wasn’t thinking; she was waiting for something, something unnamed and elusive.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She started to recognize the feeling that was creeping over her. It was fearsome, but she couldn’t push it away. As she let go, she whispered, “Free, free, free!” Her vacant stare transformed into a look of keen awareness. Her pulse quickened, and her body relaxed.
She didn’t question if this new feeling was monstrous. She had a clear, exalted understanding that made such thoughts trivial. She knew she’d cry again when she saw her husband’s kind, loving face lifeless and gray. But beyond that moment, she saw a long, unbroken stretch of years that belonged to her alone. She welcomed those years with open arms.
There would be no one to live for but herself. No one’s will would bend hers anymore. In that brief moment, she saw the imposition of one person’s will on another as a crime, whether it was done with kindness or cruelty.
And yet, she had loved him—sometimes. Often, she had not. What did it matter? Love, that unsolved mystery, couldn’t compare to this newfound self-assertion, the strongest impulse of her being.
“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling outside the door, begging to be let in. “Louise, open up! You’ll make yourself ill. What are you doing in there?”
“Go away. I’m not making myself ill.” No, she was drinking in the elixir of life through that open window.
Her imagination soared, picturing the days ahead—spring days, summer days, all her own. She prayed for a long life. Just yesterday, she’d shuddered at the thought of a long life.
Finally, she opened the door. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes. She felt like a goddess of Victory. She took her sister’s hand, and they walked downstairs together. Richards was waiting for them at the bottom.
Just then, the front door opened. Brently Mallard walked in, a bit travel-worn, carrying his bag and umbrella. He had been far from the accident scene and didn’t even know there had been one. He stood there, confused, as Josephine screamed and Richards tried to block him from his wife’s view.
When the doctors arrived, they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.
If you enjoy this story you may want to check out Another fantastic short story by Kate Chopin: A Story of Regret.