Letras
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 the
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 that 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 gripsack 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