跟读练习: Crochet & Listen: "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin | Cozy Audiobook Session - 通过视频学习英语口语

Gates of Imagination presents: "The Story of  an Hour" by Kate Chopin. Read by Olivia Lane.

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 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 her 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.

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's 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 the joy that kills.

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