Ministry of Education of Republic of Moldova Free International University of Moldova

Faculty: Foreign Languages and Scienses of Communication

Short Story The Story Of An Hour by Kate Chopin

Performed by: Mesina Anna L21E group

Checked by: Stoianova Inga

Chisinau 2013

Kate Chopin (February 8, 1850 August 22, 1904) Kate Chopin, born Katherine O'Flaherty (February 8, 1850 August 22, 1904), was an American author of short stories and novels. She is now considered by some to have been a forerunner of feminist authors of the 20th century. From 1892 to 1895, she wrote short stories for both children and adults which were published in such magazines as Atlantic Monthly, Vogue, The Century Magazine, and The Youth's Companion. Her major works were two short story collections, Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). Her important short stories included "Desiree's Baby," a tale of miscegenation in antebellum Louisiana (published in 1893), "The Story of an Hour" (1894), and "The Storm"(1898). "The Storm" is a sequel to "The 'Cadian Ball," which appeared in her first collection of short stories, Bayou Folk. Chopin also wrote two novels: At Fault (1890) and The Awakening (1899), which are set in New Orleans and Grand Isle, respectively. The people in her stories are usually inhabitants of Louisiana. Many of her works are set in Natchitoches in north central Louisiana. Within a decade of her death, Chopin was widely recognized as one of the leading writers of her time. In 1915, Fred Lewis Pattee wrote, "some of Chopin's work is equal to the best that has been produced in France or even in America. She displayed what may be described as a native aptitude for narration amounting almost to genius." Kate Chopin had different lifestyles throughout her life. These lifestyles provided her with insights and understanding that permitted her to analyze late 19th-century American society. As a result of her childhood upbringing by women with ancestry descending from both Irish and French family and life in the Cajun and Creole part of the nation, after she joined her husband in Louisiana, many of her stories and sketches were about her life in Louisiana and incorporated her less than typical portrayals of women as their own individuals with wants and needs.

The Story of an Hour

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.

Stylistic Devices
Asyndeton sentence: When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of joy that kills; Detachment: There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair; Polysyndeton sentence: Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own,and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body, And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome Inversion: Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion; Metonymy: the list of killed, Metaphor: breath of rain, glance of reflection, suspension of intelligent thought, moment of illuminatinlook of terror;

Extended metaphors: now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body, she opened her arms out to them in welcome, lines bespoke repetition and a certain strength, physical exhaustion that haunted her body, clouds that had met, clouds had piled one above the other, whispered word escaped, the notes reached her, thing that was approaching to possess her, the light comes through, her fancy was running rid, colour that filled the air, creeping out of the sky, sob came up into her throat,the strom of grief had spent itself,trees aquiver with the new spring life; Epithets: a paralysed inability, a feverish triumph in her eyes, a dull stare in her eyes, blind persistence, a clear and exhaulted perception, tender hand folded in death, veiled hints, bitter moment; Simile: like a goddess of Victory, as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been, yielding her tears as a child does after crying themselves to sleep; Synecdoche: intelligence of the railroad diseaster; Alliteration: Song which someone was singing, the sounds, the scents; Oxymoron: Monstrous joy, joy that kills; Irony: Joy that kills (oxymoron as well as); Hyperbole: wild abandonment; Enumeration: the sounds, the scents, the color; Description: comfortable, roomy armchair, quite motionless, she was young, with a fair, calm face with lines that bespoke repression and even a certain strength, the face that never looked saved at her; Repetition: free, free, free,Free! Body and soul free!,less careful, less tender, open the door! For heavens sake, open the door Onomatopoeia: sparrows were twittering Inversion: In the street below, often she had not, together they descended the stairs Rhetorical question: What was it? Emphatic construction: It was only yesterday she had thought,He had been far, It was he who had; Paralel construction:There would be no one to live...There would be no powerfull will...; Syntactic parallelism: It was her sister Josephine who told her,It was Brently Mallard who entered.