"The Story of An Hour" By: Kate Chopin

"The Story of An Hour"Kate Chopin (1894)

Kate Chopin

Kate Chopin, born Katherine O'Flaherty, was a U.S. author of short stories and novels. She is now considered by some to have been a forerunner of the feminist authors of the 20th century of Southern or Catholic background.Born: February 8, 1850, St. Louis, Missouri, United StatesDied: August 22, 1904, St. Louis, Missouri, United StatesSpouse: Oscar Chopin (m. 1870–1882)Children: Oscar Charles Chopin, Felx Andrew Chopin

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 someone 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 the 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 key hole, 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.

Someone 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. 

---

Reading response:
Pick out at least five phrases which you think are especially important to the story (what you might mark on a printed text.) Briefly describe why you chose each.
What questions about character or motivation or plot does this story leave in your mind?

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Dear Students!Here is the second story

CHARLES 

by Shirley Jackson

 The day my son Laurie started kindergarten, he gave up his little-boy clothes. He started wearing blue jeans with a belt. I watched him go off that first morning with the older girl next door. He looked as though he were going off to a fight.

    He came home the same way at lunchtime. “Isn’t anybody here?” he yelled. At the table, he knocked over his little sister’s milk.

   “How was school today?” I asked. “Did you learn anything?’’

   “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.

    “Anything, “ I said. “Didn’t learn anything.”

    “But the teacher spanked a boy,” Laurie said. “For being fresh.”

     “What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”

    Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “The teacher spanked him and made him stand in the corner. He was really fresh.”

    “What did he do?” I asked. But Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left.

     The next day, Laurie sat down for lunch. “Well,” he said, “Charles was bad again today.” He grinned. “ Today Charles hit the teacher,” he said.

    “Good heavens,” I said. “I suppose he got spanked again?”

    “He sure did,” Laurie said.

    “Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked.

    “Because she tried to make him color with red crayons. Charles wanted to color with green crayons. So he hit the teacher. She spanked him and said nobody play with Charles. But everybody did.”

    The third day, Charles bounced a see-saw onto the head of a little girl. He made her bleed. The teacher made him stay inside during recess.

    On Thursday, Charles had to stand in a corner. He was pounding his feet on the floor during story-time. Friday, Charles could not use the blackboard because he threw chalk.

    On Saturday, I talked to my husband about it. “Do you think kindergarten is too disturbing for Laurie?” I asked him. “This Charles boy sounds like a bad influence.”

    “It will be all right,” my husband said, “There are bound to be people like Charles in the world. He might as well meet them now as later.”

    On Monday, Laurie came home late.

“Charles!” he shouted, as he ran up to the house. “Charles was bad again!”

    I let him in and helped him take off his coat. “You know what Charles did?” he said.  “Charles yelled so much that the teacher came in from first grade. She said our teacher had to keep Charles quiet. And so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him.”

    “What did he do?” I asked.

    “He just sat there,” Laurie said, noticing his father. “Hi Pop, you old dust mop.”

    “What does this Charles look like? My husband asked. “What’s his last name?”

    “He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t wear a jacket.”

    I could hardly wait for the first Parent-Teachers meeting. I wanted very much to meet Charles’ mother. The meeting was still a week away.

    On Tuesday, Laurie said, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.”

    My husband and I said together, “Was it Charles’ mother?”

    “Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was fresh to the teacher’s friend. They wouldn’t let him do exercises.”

    “Fresh again?” I said.

    “He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend told Charles to touch his toes. And Charles kicked him.”

    “What do you think they’ll do about Charles?” my husband asked.

    “I don’t know,” Laurie said. “Throw him out of school, I guess.”

    Wednesday and Thursday were routine. Charles yelled during story-time. He hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday, Charles stayed after school again. All the other children stayed to watch him.

    On Monday of the third week, Laurie came home with another report. “You know what Charles did today?” he asked. “He told a girl to say a word, and she said it. The teacher washed her mouth out with soap, and Charles laughed.”

    “What word?” his father asked.

    “It’s so bad, I’ll have to whisper it to you,” Laurie said. He whispered into my husband’s ear.

    “Charles told the little girl to say that?” he said, his eyes widening.

    “She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”

    “What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.

    “Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”

    The next day, Charles said the evil word himself three or four times. He got his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.

    My husband came to the door that night as I was leaving for the Parent-Teachers meeting. “Invite her over after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at the mother of that kid.”

    “I hope she’s there,” I said.

    “She’ll be there,” my husband said. “How could they hold a Parent-Teachers meeting without Charles’ mother?”

    At the meeting, I looked over the faces of all the other mothers. None of them looked unhappy enough to be the mother of Charles. No one stood up and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles.

    After the meeting, I found Laurie’s teacher. “I’ve been wanting to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”

    Oh, yes,” she said. “We’re all so interested in Laurie.”

    “He certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”

    “He’s had some trouble getting used to school,” she said. “But I think he’ll be all right.”

    “Laurie usually fits in quickly,” I said. “I suppose his trouble might be from Charles’ influence.”

    “Charles?” the teacher said.

    “Yes,” I said, laughing. “You must have your hands full with Charles.”

    “Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in kindergarten.”

Kindly post the exercises given at the end of the story.

Early Autum: Story Reading

Quiz

Read the story, then answer the questions.

EARLY AUTUMN

Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, talking together. Then something not very important had come between them, and they didn’t speak. Impulsively, she had married a man she thought she loved. Bill went away, bitter about women.

Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.

“Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. At first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
“I live in New York now,” she said.
“Oh” — smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.

A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.

“And your husband?” he asked her.
“We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very . . .” (he wanted to say old) “. . . well,” he said.

She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young.

“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see us sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”

The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.

“We’d love it,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids.” He grinned.

Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.

“There’s my bus,” she said.
He held out his hand. “Good-bye.”
“When . . .” she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word.

Suddenly she shrieked very loudly. “Good-bye!” But the bus door had closed.

The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address — or to ask him for his — or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill too.

Show questions one by one

1.    This story is told mostly through

A.     ?    flashback.

B.     ?    foreshadowing.

C.     ?    dialogue.

D.     ?    description.

2.    What significance does the sentence "Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes" have to the development of this story?

A.     ?    It contributes to the physical description of Bill.

B.     ?    It establishes that Bill is concerned for Mary's safety because she lives in the city.

C.     ?    It emphasizes the coldness of the weather.

D.     ?    It hints that Bill is uneasy that Mary lives in the city where he lives.

3.    The tone of the story is revealed by the characters' conversations, which is

A.     ?    humorous.

B.     ?    strained.

C.     ?    angry.

D.     ?    relaxed.

4.    From what point of view is this story told?

A.     ?    first person, directly involved in the story

B.     ?    first person, a witness to the story

C.     ?    second person, directly involved in the story

D.     ?    third person, all knowing