[adapted]

by
Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard had a heart condition, her family was very careful about telling her the sad news of her husband’s death. They wanted to break the news gently so she would not be too shocked.

It was her sister, Josephine, who told her. She spoke in short, broken sentences, giving small hints instead of saying it directly. Her husband’s friend, Richards, was also there. He had been at the newspaper office when news of the train accident arrived. Brently Mallard’s name was at the top of the list of those who had died. Richards had made sure the news was true by checking with a second telegram, then hurried to tell Mrs. Mallard before someone else could give her the news in a careless or unkind way.

Mrs. Mallard did not react the way many other women would. She did not sit frozen in shock, unable to believe what she heard. Instead, she cried loudly and freely, holding onto her sister’s arms. When her grief had passed, she went to her room alone and did not want anyone to follow her.

In her room, facing the open window, was a large, comfortable chair. She sat down, feeling so tired that it was not only her body but also her soul that seemed weighed down.

She could see the open square outside her house, where the tops of the trees trembled with the fresh energy of spring. The sweet smell of rain was in the air. Down in the street, a peddler was calling out his goods. In the distance, she could faintly hear someone singing a song, and all around, sparrows were chirping under the roof. Patches of blue sky appeared between the clouds, which had gathered and stacked up in the west, right in front of her window.

She sat still, her head resting on the cushion of the chair. She did not move, except when a sob rose in her throat and shook her body, just like a child who has cried itself to sleep and still sobs in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, but her features showed a life of holding back emotions and also a certain strength. Now, though, her eyes were dull as she stared at one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a thoughtful gaze but rather the look of someone whose mind had completely paused.

Something was coming to her, and she was waiting for it, though she felt afraid. What was it? She did not know. It was too hard to name, too difficult to describe, but she could feel it creeping down from the sky, reaching out to her through the sounds, smells, and colors in the air.

Now her chest rose and fell quickly. She was beginning to understand what was coming to her, and she tried to push it away with her mind—as powerless as her two small, white hands would have been. But when she stopped fighting it, a soft word escaped her lips. She whispered it again and again: “free, free, free!”

The blank stare and the fearful look in her eyes disappeared. Now, her eyes were sharp and bright. Her heart beat fast, and her blood rushed warmly through her body, making her feel relaxed. She did not pause to wonder whether this was a terrible joy or not. Her mind was clear, and she quickly dismissed the thought as unimportant.

She knew that when she saw her husband’s lifeless body, she would cry again. She would see his kind, gentle hands, now still in death. His face, which had always looked at her with love, would be cold, gray, and unmoving. But beyond that sad moment, she saw a long future ahead, a future that would belong only to her. She opened her arms wide, as if to welcome it.

There would be no one to live for her in the years ahead; she would live for herself. No one’s strong will would control hers, the way people believe they have the right to force their desires on others. Whether it was done out of kindness or cruelty, she saw, in that brief, bright moment, that it was always wrong.

And yet, she had loved him—sometimes. But many times, she had not. Did it even matter? What was love, that unsolved mystery, compared to the powerful feeling she now understood? This new sense of freedom, this strong need to belong to herself, was now the deepest desire in her soul.

“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.

Outside the room, Josephine was kneeling by the door, pressing her lips against the keyhole, begging her to open it.
“Louise, open the door! Please, open it—you will make yourself sick. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake, open the door!”

“Go away. I am not making myself sick.”
No, she was not sick at all. She was breathing in life itself, feeling it flow through her as she sat by the open window. Her mind ran wild as she imagined all the days ahead of her—spring days, summer days, and many more. Days that would belong only to her.

She whispered a quick prayer, hoping that her life would be long. Only yesterday, the thought of a long life had made her shudder.

At last, she stood up and opened the door to her sister’s pleading. Her eyes shone with excitement, and without realizing it, she walked like a goddess of Victory. She put her arms around Josephine’s waist, and together they went down the stairs. Richards was waiting for them at the bottom.

Just then, someone was unlocking the front door with a latchkey. Brently Mallard walked in, looking a little dusty from travel, calmly carrying his small suitcase and umbrella. He had been far away from the train accident and did not even know that it had happened.

He stood in shock as Josephine screamed, and he saw Richards jump forward, trying to block his wife from seeing him.

But Richards was too late.

When the doctors arrived, they said she had died from her heart condition—from “the joy that kills.”