The Story of An Hour

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 The Story of An Hour

استعرض الموضوع السابق استعرض الموضوع التالي اذهب الى الأسفل 
كاتب الموضوعرسالة
همسة براءة



نوع المتصفح موزيلا

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


انجازاتي
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الوسام الأول


مُساهمةموضوع: The Story of An Hour    2011-08-09, 20:15

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 hte 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 keyhold,
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 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.


by Katherine Chopin
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
اسامة23



نوع المتصفح شروم

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


مُساهمةموضوع: رد: The Story of An Hour    2011-08-09, 20:19

God bless you
Precious sister
For this effort
Wonderful
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
همسة براءة



نوع المتصفح موزيلا

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


انجازاتي
لايتوفر على اوسمة بعد:

الوسام الأول


مُساهمةموضوع: رد: The Story of An Hour    2011-08-09, 20:20

Thank your for your sweet comments
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
Roshan



نوع المتصفح موزيلا

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


انجازاتي
لايتوفر على اوسمة بعد:

الوسام الأول


مُساهمةموضوع: رد: The Story of An Hour    2011-08-14, 20:04

بارك الله فيييييييييييييك
موضوع رائع
ومفيد
وقيم
اجمل تحية
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
همسة براءة



نوع المتصفح موزيلا

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


انجازاتي
لايتوفر على اوسمة بعد:

الوسام الأول


مُساهمةموضوع: رد: The Story of An Hour    2011-08-14, 20:04

اسعد الله قلوبكم وامتعها بالخير دوماً
أسعدني كثيرا مروركم وتعطيركم هذه الصفحه
وردكم المفعم بالحب والعطاء
دمتم بخير وعافية
لكم خالص احترامي
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
ahmedeph



نوع المتصفح موزيلا

صلي على النبي

صل الله عليه وسلم


مُساهمةموضوع: رد: The Story of An Hour    2012-12-02, 14:52

thankssssssssssssss
الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة اذهب الى الأسفل
معاينة صفحة البيانات الشخصي للعضو
 
The Story of An Hour
استعرض الموضوع السابق استعرض الموضوع التالي الرجوع الى أعلى الصفحة 
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