The Story of An Hour (1894)
Kate Chopin （1851-1904）
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 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.
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 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.
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.
知道马兰德夫人（Mrs. Mallard）的心脏很衰弱，他们尽可能小心翼翼地把她丈夫死亡的消息告诉她。
玛兰德的姐姐，约瑟芬(Josephine)，用不连贯的语言，遮遮掩掩地给她暗示着。她丈夫的朋友，理查兹(Richards)也在那儿，就在她身边。在列有布伦特·马兰德(Brently Mallard)名字的火车事故遇难者的消息名单传来时，理查兹正好在报社里。紧接其后的电报，使他在最快的时间里证明了消息的可靠性。他必须赶在那些不太心细，不太温柔的朋友之前把这个不幸的消息带回来。
她没有像别的女人那样，带着麻木接受的神情听这个故事。她近似绝望地扑倒在姐姐的怀里嚎啕大哭，泪如泉涌。当这暴风雨般的悲伤过去后，她独自一人回到了自己的房间，不让任何人跟着她。
窗户对面，放着一把舒服的大扶手椅，她疲惫不堪地沉了进去。这种疲惫，折磨着她的身体，似乎也正浸入她的灵魂。
她看到了屋外广场上，充满新春气息的树梢是那么的兴奋。空气中弥漫着芬芳的雨的气息。窗户下面的街道上，小贩正在叫卖他的器皿。远处传来缥缈的歌声，数不清的麻雀也在屋檐下叽叽喳喳地唱个不停。
对着她窗户的西边天空上，层层叠叠的云朵之间，露着一绺一绺的蔚蓝蔚蓝色的天空。突出文章的主题：被压抑的个性和对自由的追求
她把头靠在椅背上，非常地平静。除了像个孩子自己哭着睡着了，还继续呜咽一样，她也偶尔地呜咽一下，这使她有点颤抖。
她很年青，她那白皙、安详的脸上线条，显示着一种压抑甚至说是一种力量。但是现在，她那凝望蓝天的双眸，目光茫然，甚或有点呆滞。这并不是匆匆沉思的一瞥，更不是一种长久的深思熟虑，而是精神世界一片空旷。
有一种感觉正在向她靠近，那正是她带着恐惧等待的。是什么？她不知道。这种感觉太微妙，太难以捉摸，她说不清楚。但她感觉得到它，它正在空中蔓延，它穿过弥漫于空气中的声音、气味和颜色慢慢地靠近她。
现在，她内心骚动不安。她开始认识到那种向她步步进逼、并且渐渐地控制他的感觉是什么。她努力地想用自己的意志力把这种感觉打回去，但是她的意志力就像她那两只纤细、白皙的双手一样的无力。
当她任那种感觉肆意发展的时候，从她微微张开的双唇间喃喃地溢出一个词。她屏住呼吸一遍又一遍地重复着：“自由，自由，自由！”随着那种感觉而来的茫然的目光和恐惧的神色从他的眼里消失了。现在，她的目光透着机敏，炯炯有神。她的心跳加快，热血温暖了身体的每一个部位，使她感到身心放松。
她没有片刻去想她此刻拥有的这种欢愉，是否不正当。一种清清楚楚的、兴奋的感觉燃烧着她，她根本无暇去顾及那些个琐事。
她知道，当她见到丈夫那双温柔、亲切的双手变得僵硬，那张从来都不会对她吝啬爱意的脸变得毫无表情、灰白如纸的时候，她肯定还会哭的。但在这痛苦之外，她看到了长远的未来，那些只属于她自己的未来岁月。她张开双臂去迎接那些岁月。
在未来的岁月里，她不再活着只是为了别人，而只为她自己。那时，她不必再盲目地屈从于任何专横的意志。人们总是相信他们有权把群体的意志强加于个人意志之上。无论其动机的善良与否，她突然感到这种做法绝不亚于犯罪。
是的，她曾经爱她——有时爱他。更多的时候，她并不爱她。那有什么关系！爱情这神秘的玩意，在她突然拥有了自我，就是做回她自己的强烈火冲动的时候，有什么意义呢？
“自由！身体和灵魂的自由！”她不断地呢喃着。
她姐姐约瑟芬跪在紧闭的门前，把嘴贴在锁孔上，恳求着让她进来。“路易斯，开门！我求你了，把门打开——你会使自己生病的。你在干什么，路易斯？看在上帝的份上，把门打开。”
“走开。我不会使自己生病的。”不会的，她正站在敞开的窗子前，贪婪地用吮吸着窗外那不息的生命中的甘霖。感情压抑之深
她的想象像是脱僵的野马一样奔着。她想象着未来的日子，春天的日子，夏天的日子，所有将属于她自己的日子。她祈祷着长寿，而就在昨天，她还那么肯定嫌生命太漫长。
最后，在她姐姐的强烈要求下，她站起来，把门打开。她的眼里充满了兴奋和胜利，她不知道自己看起来就像胜利女神一样。她搂住姐姐的腰，一起走下楼梯。理查兹站在下面等他们。
有人用钥匙打开了前门。进来的正是布伦特·马兰德，他有点风尘仆仆，又漫不经心得手提旅行袋和雨伞。（旅途之劳累，心情之平静；这与她的心情产生了强烈的对比。）他离事发现场很远，他甚至不知道发生了车祸。
他愣在那儿，对约瑟芬的尖叫感到吃惊，对理查兹快速地把他挡在妻子的视线外感到吃惊。
但是理查兹已经太迟了。
医生赶来时，他们说她死于心脏病——死于狂喜过度！
关于作者 凯特·肖邦(Kate Chopin)
在19世纪末，肖邦试图直白的描写女性在与男性、儿童的关系及她们本身性欲中的感受和情绪。这 一点被认为是冒犯了当时上流社会的读者。1885年母亲去世后，她停止了天主教的实践并开始接受达尔文主义对人类进化的观点。在自然而不是教堂中寻求上 帝，肖邦大量描写性与爱的主题。她为美国作家们悲哀，认为由环境所致，艺术上的局限性阻碍了完整且本能的叙述。那些挑战传统社会行为的作品，如《一小时的 故事》，常常被杂志编辑拒绝。然而半个多世纪后，女权主义评论家却大力提倡。
在翻译莫泊桑的小说后，肖邦采取了他的模式。她认为，“这是生活，不是小说。在情节设计，老式手法和舞台套路中，哪能找到我一直喜好的这种模糊的不假思索的叙事艺术？”
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巨大落差小心脏承受不住
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