The Story of An Hour (Elements of Fiction)

The Story of An Hour
by Kate 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 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.
Elements of Fiction
I. Setting
Mrs. Mallard’s room
II. Characters
a. Mrs. Mallard
b. Josephine
c. Richards
d. Brently Mallard
III. Plot
a. Exposition
Mrs. Mallard has a heart disease and her sister Josephine is taking care of her.
Richards is a friend of Mrs. Mallard’s husband and is about to tell some shocking news.
b. Rising Action
Richards who had been in the newspaper office told Mrs. Mallard that her husband is
death.
c. Climax
Mrs. Mallard is filled with grief after hearing that her husband is death as her heart
disease is getting worse.
d. Falling Action
Mrs. Mallard swallowed by sadness, locked herself in her room. Her sister Josephine
is pleading for her to come out but once she opened the door. Her sister is already in
death’s door.
e. Resolution
Mrs. Mallard’s husband, Brently Mallard came, alive and far from the incident as Mrs.
Mallard, Josephine descended from the stairs and Richards waiting down the stairs
block Brently’s view of her wife. When the doctors came his wife is already dead
because of her heart disease, of a joy that kills.
IV. Point of View
Third Person point of view
V. Theme
The moral lesson of the story is don’t lose hope, trust and believe in your loved ones
because if they love you, they will never let you down.
VI. Images
The imagery in the story is what Mrs. Mallard sees outside her window. The sad
atmosphere that surrounds her as described in the story.
VII. Symbols
The rain and dark clouds mean sadness that is associated with Mrs. Mallard’s grief and
the sadness of losing someone you love.

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The Story of An Hour

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Mrs. Mallard’s room

IV. Point of View

Third Person point of view

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