一小时的故事
麦拉德太太有心脏病，所以得小心翼翼，尽量温和地告诉她：她丈夫死了。
她妹妹约瑟芬结结巴巴、遮遮掩掩、欲言又止地把死讯告诉了她。她丈夫的朋友理查兹也在她身旁。火车失事的消息传来时，他碰巧在报社办公室，遇难者名单上的头一个便是布伦特利·麦拉德。他发了封电报核实了一下，随即匆匆赶来，免得哪位不那么小心、不那么体贴的朋友把这不幸的消息传了出去。
听到噩耗时，她没有像很多女人那样浑身瘫软，无力接受这意味着什么，而是马上倒在妹妹的怀里，突然不顾一切地啜泣起来。悲痛的风暴平息之后，她独自回到自己的房间，不要人跟着。
房间里正对着敞开的窗户放着一张宽大、舒适的扶手椅。她沉沉地坐下去，浑身的疲乏挥之不去，似乎深达灵魂。
她看到房前广场上所有的树梢都在春意盎然地颤动着，空气里弥漫着沁人心脾的雨的气息。下面街道上有个小贩在叫卖，远处传来渺渺的歌声，数不清的麻雀在屋檐下啁啾。
正对着窗口的西边，层层叠叠的云朵之间透出一块块蓝色的天空。她一动不动地坐着，头仰着，靠着垫子，偶尔哽咽一声，身体便随之颤动一下，象是哭着睡着的孩子在梦里还在抽泣。
她很年轻，脸很漂亮，很安静，脸部的线条透着压抑，甚或还有某种力量。可是现在她的眼睛茫然无神，呆呆地盯着远处的一块蓝色天空，目光并不象是在沉思，而是显露出思维的停滞。
有一种东西正朝她而来，她满怀恐惧地等待着。是什么呢？她不知道，因为它太微妙了，捉摸不定，难以名状。但她能感觉到，它来自天空，穿过弥散在空气中的声音、气味和色彩，奔她而来。
她的胸脯剧烈地起伏起来。她开始认识到是什么东西正朝她而来，竭力想用意志把它击退，而她的意志却像她那双纤细洁白的手一样软弱无力。
她略略屈服了一些，微启的唇边轻声滑出一个字眼。她屏着气一遍又一遍地说着：“自由了，自由了，自由了！”眼中的惘然和恐惧不见了，变得神采奕奕。脉搏跳得很快，奔涌的血液温暖着、松弛着全身。
她并没有停下来问一问，自己是否陷入了一种邪恶的快乐。她已大彻大悟，这种念头微不足道。
她知道，当看见那双温柔善良的手交叠在一起，已经死去时，当看到那张永远带着爱意看着她的脸庞僵硬灰暗，毫无生气时，她会再一次流泪。但她也看到，那痛苦的一刻之后，将会是许许多多完全属于她的岁月，于是她张开双臂去迎接。
在未来的岁月里，她不再会为谁而活——她要为自己而活。人们盲目而固执地认为他们有权把一己的愿望强加在同类身上，而今却不再有这样一种强烈的愿望束缚着她。在那彻悟的一瞬，在她看来，那种行为——不管是出于善意还是恶意——不啻是一桩罪恶。
然而她也爱过他——有时候爱过，经常是不爱的。可这有什么关系呢？她忽然意识到，拥有表达自我意志的自由才是生命最强劲的动力，跟这相比，爱情这未解之谜又算得了什么呢？
“自由了，身心都自由了！”她不住地轻声说着。
约瑟芬跪在紧闭的门外，嘴唇贴着锁孔，请求她把门打开。“路易丝，开门哪，求求你开门哪！你会不舒服的。你在干什么呀，路易丝？看在老天爷份上把门开开吧。”
“走开，我没有不舒服。”当然没有，她正透过窗户啜饮着长生不老的琼浆呢。
她无拘无束地幻想着未来的日子——春日、夏日，各种各样属于她的日子。她迅速地悄声祈祷自己活得长一些。而就在昨天，她想到自己可能会长命时，还曾不寒而栗。
妹妹还在不住地哀求，她终于起身把门打开了，眼中放射出狂热的胜利之光，不知不觉中，走路的姿态竟仿佛胜利女神。她揽着妹妹的腰，一同走下楼梯。理查兹在下面等着她俩。
有人在用钥匙开前门。进来的正是布伦特利·麦拉德，风尘仆仆，神态安详地拎着包和雨伞。他离事故发生地很远，根本不知道有这么回事。只见约瑟芬尖叫一声，理查兹一个箭步上前挡住他妻子的视线，他不禁愕然。
可是理查兹的动作已经太迟了。
医生赶来，说她死于心脏病发作——她高兴过度了。
附原作：
Kate Chopin: The Story of an Hour (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.
麦拉德太太有心脏病，所以得小心翼翼，尽量温和地告诉她：她丈夫死了。
她妹妹约瑟芬结结巴巴、遮遮掩掩、欲言又止地把死讯告诉了她。她丈夫的朋友理查兹也在她身旁。火车失事的消息传来时，他碰巧在报社办公室，遇难者名单上的头一个便是布伦特利·麦拉德。他发了封电报核实了一下，随即匆匆赶来，免得哪位不那么小心、不那么体贴的朋友把这不幸的消息传了出去。
听到噩耗时，她没有像很多女人那样浑身瘫软，无力接受这意味着什么，而是马上倒在妹妹的怀里，突然不顾一切地啜泣起来。悲痛的风暴平息之后，她独自回到自己的房间，不要人跟着。
房间里正对着敞开的窗户放着一张宽大、舒适的扶手椅。她沉沉地坐下去，浑身的疲乏挥之不去，似乎深达灵魂。
她看到房前广场上所有的树梢都在春意盎然地颤动着，空气里弥漫着沁人心脾的雨的气息。下面街道上有个小贩在叫卖，远处传来渺渺的歌声，数不清的麻雀在屋檐下啁啾。
正对着窗口的西边，层层叠叠的云朵之间透出一块块蓝色的天空。她一动不动地坐着，头仰着，靠着垫子，偶尔哽咽一声，身体便随之颤动一下，象是哭着睡着的孩子在梦里还在抽泣。
她很年轻，脸很漂亮，很安静，脸部的线条透着压抑，甚或还有某种力量。可是现在她的眼睛茫然无神，呆呆地盯着远处的一块蓝色天空，目光并不象是在沉思，而是显露出思维的停滞。
有一种东西正朝她而来，她满怀恐惧地等待着。是什么呢？她不知道，因为它太微妙了，捉摸不定，难以名状。但她能感觉到，它来自天空，穿过弥散在空气中的声音、气味和色彩，奔她而来。
她的胸脯剧烈地起伏起来。她开始认识到是什么东西正朝她而来，竭力想用意志把它击退，而她的意志却像她那双纤细洁白的手一样软弱无力。
她略略屈服了一些，微启的唇边轻声滑出一个字眼。她屏着气一遍又一遍地说着：“自由了，自由了，自由了！”眼中的惘然和恐惧不见了，变得神采奕奕。脉搏跳得很快，奔涌的血液温暖着、松弛着全身。
她并没有停下来问一问，自己是否陷入了一种邪恶的快乐。她已大彻大悟，这种念头微不足道。
她知道，当看见那双温柔善良的手交叠在一起，已经死去时，当看到那张永远带着爱意看着她的脸庞僵硬灰暗，毫无生气时，她会再一次流泪。但她也看到，那痛苦的一刻之后，将会是许许多多完全属于她的岁月，于是她张开双臂去迎接。
在未来的岁月里，她不再会为谁而活——她要为自己而活。人们盲目而固执地认为他们有权把一己的愿望强加在同类身上，而今却不再有这样一种强烈的愿望束缚着她。在那彻悟的一瞬，在她看来，那种行为——不管是出于善意还是恶意——不啻是一桩罪恶。
然而她也爱过他——有时候爱过，经常是不爱的。可这有什么关系呢？她忽然意识到，拥有表达自我意志的自由才是生命最强劲的动力，跟这相比，爱情这未解之谜又算得了什么呢？
“自由了，身心都自由了！”她不住地轻声说着。
约瑟芬跪在紧闭的门外，嘴唇贴着锁孔，请求她把门打开。“路易丝，开门哪，求求你开门哪！你会不舒服的。你在干什么呀，路易丝？看在老天爷份上把门开开吧。”
“走开，我没有不舒服。”当然没有，她正透过窗户啜饮着长生不老的琼浆呢。
她无拘无束地幻想着未来的日子——春日、夏日，各种各样属于她的日子。她迅速地悄声祈祷自己活得长一些。而就在昨天，她想到自己可能会长命时，还曾不寒而栗。
妹妹还在不住地哀求，她终于起身把门打开了，眼中放射出狂热的胜利之光，不知不觉中，走路的姿态竟仿佛胜利女神。她揽着妹妹的腰，一同走下楼梯。理查兹在下面等着她俩。
有人在用钥匙开前门。进来的正是布伦特利·麦拉德，风尘仆仆，神态安详地拎着包和雨伞。他离事故发生地很远，根本不知道有这么回事。只见约瑟芬尖叫一声，理查兹一个箭步上前挡住他妻子的视线，他不禁愕然。
可是理查兹的动作已经太迟了。
医生赶来，说她死于心脏病发作——她高兴过度了。
附原作：
Kate Chopin: The Story of an Hour (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.
