大家都知道馬蘭德夫人的心臟有毛病何什，所以在把她丈夫的死訊告訴她時都是小心翼翼的兔毒，盡可能地溫和委婉。
壞消息是由她姐姐約瑟芬告訴她的瑟匆，連話都沒說成句闽坡，只敢遮遮掩掩地向她暗示。她丈夫的朋友理查茲也在場愁溜，就在她的身旁疾嗅。當火車事故的消息傳來的時候，理查茲正好在報社里祝谚，遇難者名單上布蘭特雷·馬蘭德的名字排在首位宪迟。他只等到緊接其后的第二份電報證明了消息的真實性后，就急忙趕在了那些不太心細也不太溫柔的朋友之前先把這個不幸的消息帶了回來交惯。 她不像許多別的女人那樣次泽，只是帶著麻木接受的神情聽著這個故事穿仪，而是立刻瘋狂而絕望地撲倒在姐姐的懷里淚如泉涌。當這暴風(fēng)雨般的悲傷過去后意荤，她獨自回到了自己的房間里啊片，不讓任何人跟著她。
窗戶是開著的玖像，對面放著一把舒服的大扶手椅紫谷，她筋疲力盡地沉了進去。這種疲憊不僅折磨著她的身體捐寥，似乎也浸入了她的靈魂笤昨。
透過窗口，她可以看到屋前廣場上的樹梢在新春的氣息中興奮地顫抖著握恳÷髦希空氣中彌漫著芬芳的雨的氣息。窗下的街道上乡洼，一個小販正在叫賣他的器皿崇裁。遠處依稀傳來縹緲的歌聲，數(shù)不清的麻雀也在屋檐下嘰嘰喳喳地唱個不停束昵。
對著她窗口西邊的天空上拔稳，云朵層層疊疊地堆積著，間或露出一綹綹蔚藍的天空锹雏。
她把頭靠在椅背上巴比，非常地平靜。除了偶爾會嗚咽一兩聲逼侦，使她有點顫抖匿辩，就像小孩子哭著睡著了，但在夢中還會繼續(xù)嗚咽一樣榛丢。
她還很年青铲球，白皙而安詳?shù)哪樕系木€條，顯示著一種壓抑甚或說是一種力量晰赞。但是現(xiàn)在稼病，她的目光有些陰郁，呆呆地凝望著遠處白云間的綹綹藍天掖鱼。這并不是匆匆的一瞥然走，而是一種長久的深思熟慮。
有一種感覺正在向她靠近戏挡，那正是她帶著恐懼等待的芍瑞。是什么？她不知道褐墅。這種感覺太微妙拆檬，太難以捉摸洪己，她說不清楚。但她感覺得到竟贯，它正在空中蔓延答捕，穿過彌漫于空氣中的聲音、氣味和顏色慢慢地向她靠近屑那。
現(xiàn)在拱镐，她內(nèi)心騷動不安。她開始認識到那種向她步步進逼并漸漸地控制她的感覺是什么了持际。她努力地想用自己的意志力把這種感覺打回去——可是她意志就像她那白皙纖弱的雙手一樣軟弱無力沃琅。
當她稍稍放松了抵抗的時候，從她微微張開的雙唇間喃喃地溢出一個詞选酗。她屏住呼吸一遍又一遍地重復(fù)著：“自由阵难，自由，自由芒填！”隨著那種感覺而來的茫然的目光和恐懼的神色從她的眼里消失了。現(xiàn)在空繁，她的目光透著機敏殿衰，炯炯有神。她的心跳加快盛泡，沸騰的熱血溫暖了身體的每一個部位闷祥，使她感到身心完全地放松了。
她沒有停下來問問自己傲诵，是不是有一種邪惡的快感在控制著她凯砍。一種清清楚楚的、興奮的感覺讓她根本無暇去顧及那些個瑣事拴竹。
她知道悟衩，當她見到丈夫那雙溫柔親切的雙手變得僵硬，那張從不會對她吝嗇愛意的臉變得毫無表情栓拜、灰白如紙的時候座泳，她肯定還會哭的。但在這痛苦之外幕与，她看到了長遠的未來挑势，那些只屬于她自己的未來歲月。而她張開雙臂去迎接那些歲月啦鸣。
在未來的歲月里潮饱，她不再為了別人而活著，而只為她自己诫给。那時香拉，她不必再盲目地屈從于任何專橫的意志啦扬。人們總是相信他們有權(quán)把個人的意志強加于他人。無論其動機是善良的還是殘酷的缕溉，她突然感到這種做法絕不亞于犯罪考传。
當然，她是愛過他的——有時候是愛他的证鸥。但經(jīng)常是不愛他的僚楞。那又有什么關(guān)系呢！有了獨立的意志——她突然意識到這是她身上最強烈的一種沖動枉层，愛情這未有答案的神秘事物又算得了什么呢泉褐！
“自由了！身心都自由了鸟蜡！”她不住地悄悄低語著膜赃。
約瑟芬跪在緊閉的門外，嘴唇對著鎖孔揉忘，苦苦地哀求著讓她進去跳座。“露易絲泣矛，開開門疲眷！求求你啦，開開門——你這樣會得病的您朽。你干什么哪狂丝，露易絲？看在上帝的份兒上哗总，開開門吧几颜！” “走開。我不會讓自己生病的讯屈〉翱蓿”不會的，她正陶醉在窗外那不息的生命里耻煤。
她的想象像脫僵的野馬一樣狂奔著具壮。她想象著未來的日子，春天的日子哈蝇，夏天的日子棺妓，所有將屬于她自己的日子。她快速地祈禱著生命能夠更加長久炮赦，而就在昨天怜跑，一想到生命那么漫長她就瑟瑟發(fā)抖。
她終于站了起來，在她姐姐的強求下性芬，打開了門峡眶。她眼睛里充滿了勝利的激情，她的舉止不知不覺竟像勝利女神一樣植锉。她緊摟著姐姐的腰辫樱，一起走下樓去。理查茲正站在下面等著她們俊庇。 有人正在用鑰匙打開大門狮暑。進來的是布蘭特雷·馬蘭德，雖略顯旅途勞頓辉饱，但泰然自若地提著他的大旅行包和傘搬男。事發(fā)當時他離現(xiàn)場很遠，甚至根本就不知道發(fā)生了車禍彭沼。他愣在那兒缔逛，對約瑟芬的尖叫感到吃驚，對理查茲快速地把他擋在他妻子的視線外更感到吃驚姓惑。
但是理查茲還是太遲了褐奴。
醫(yī)生來后，他們說她是死于心臟病——說她是死于嫉妒高興于毙。
一小時的故事（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 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 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.
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 heart disease-- of joy that kills.
---end
