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KnowingthatMrs.Mallardwasafflictedwithahearttrouble,greatcarewastakentobreaktoherasgentlyaspossiblethenewsofherhusband'sdeath.ItwashersisterJosephinewhotoldher,inbrokensentences;veiledhintsthatrevealedinhalfconcealing.Herhusband'sfriendRichardswasthere,too,nearher.Itwashewhohadbeeninthenewspaperofficewhenintelligenceoftherailroaddisasterwasreceived,withBrentlyMallard'snameleadingthelistofkilled.Hehadonlytakenthetimetoassurehimselfofitstruthbyasecondtelegram,andhadhastenedtoforestallanylesscareful,lesstenderfriendinbearingthesadmessage.Shedidnothearthestoryasmanywomenhaveheardthesame,withaparalyzedinabilitytoacceptitssignificance.Sheweptatonce,withsudden,wildabandonment,inhersister'sarms.Whenthestormofgriefhadspentitselfshewentawaytoherroomalone.Shewouldhavenoonefollowher.Therestood,facingtheopenwindow,acomfortable,roomyarmchair.Intothisshesank,presseddownbyaphysicalexhaustionthathauntedherbodyandseemedtoreachintohersoul.Shecouldseeintheopensquarebeforeherhousethetopsoftreesthatwereallaquiverwiththenewspringlife.Thedeliciousbreathofrainwasintheair.Inthestreetbelowapeddlerwascryinghiswares.Thenotesofadistantsongwhichsomeonewassingingreachedherfaintly,andcountlesssparrowsweretwitteringintheeaves.Therewerepatchesofblueskyshowinghereandtherethroughthecloudsthathadmetandpiledoneabovetheotherinthewestfacingherwindow.Shesatwithherheadthrownbackuponthecushionofthechair,quitemotionless,exceptwhenasobcameupintoherthroatandshookher,asachildwhohascrieditselftosleepcontinuestosobinitsdreams.Shewasyoung,withafair,calmface,whoselinesbespokerepressionandevenacertainstrength.Butnowtherewasadullstareinhereyes,whosegazewasfixedawayoffyonderononeofthosepatchesofbluesky.Itwasnotaglanceofreflection,butratherindicatedasuspensionofintelligentthought.Therewassomethingcomingtoherandshewaswaitingforit,fearfully.Whatwasit?Shedidnotknow;itwastoosubtleandelusivetoname.Butshefeltit,creepingoutofthesky,reachingtowardherthroughthesounds,thescents,thecolorthatfilledtheair.Nowherbosomroseandfelltumultuously.Shewasbeginningtorecognizethisthingthatwasapproachingtopossessher,andshewasstrivingtobeatitbackwithherwill--aspowerlessashertwowhiteslenderhandswouldhavebeen.Whensheabandonedherselfalittlewhisperedwordescapedherslightlypartedlips.Shesaiditoverandoverunderherbreath:free,free,free!Thevacantstareandthelookofterrorthathadfolloweditwentfromhereyes.Theystayedkeenandbright.Herpulsesbeatfast,andthecoursingbloodwarmedandrelaxedeveryinchofherbody.Shedidnotstoptoaskifitwereorwerenotamonstrousjoythatheldher.Aclearandexaltedperceptionenabledhertodismissthesuggestionastrivial.Sheknewthatshewouldweepagainwhenshesawthekind,tenderhandsfoldedindeath;thefacethathadneverlookedsavewithloveuponher,fixedandgrayanddead.Butshesawbeyondthatbittermomentalongprocessionofyearstocomethatwouldbelongtoherabsolutely.Andsheopenedandspreadherarmsouttotheminwelcome.Therewouldbenoonetoliveforduringthosecomingyears;shewouldliveforherself.Therewouldbenopowerfulwillbendinghersinthatblindpersistencewithwhichmenandwomenbelievetheyhavearighttoimposeaprivatewilluponafellow-creature.Akindintentionoracruelintentionmadetheactseemnolessacrimeasshelookeduponitinthatbriefmomentofillumination.Andyetshehadlovedhim--sometimes.Oftenshehadnot.Whatdiditmatter!Whatcouldlove,theunsolvedmystery,countforinfaceofthispossessionofself-assertionwhichshesuddenlyrecognizedasthestrongestimpulseofherbeing!Free!Bodyandsoulfree!shekeptwhispering.Josephinewaskneelingbeforethecloseddoorwithherlipstothekeyhole,imploringforadmission.Louise,openthedoor!Ibeg,openthedoor--youwillmakeyourselfill.WhatareyoudoingLouise?Forheaven'ssakeopenthedoor.Goaway.Iamnotmakingmyselfill.No;shewasdrinkinginaveryelixiroflifethroughthatopenwindow.Herfancywasrunningriotalongthosedaysaheadofher.Springdays,andsummerdays,andallsortsofdaysthatwouldbeherown.Shebreathedaquickprayerthatlifemightbelong.Itwasonlyyesterdayshehadthoughtwithashudderthatlifemightbelong.Shearoseatlengthandopenedthedoortohersister'simportunities.Therewasafeverishtriumphinhereyes,andshecarriedherselfunwittinglylikeagoddessofVictory.Sheclaspedhersister'swaist,andtogethertheydescendedthestairs.Richardsstoodwaitingforthematthebottom.Someonewasopeningthefrontdoorwithalatchkey.ItwasBrentlyMallardwhoentered,alittletravel-stained,composedlycarryinghisgrip-sackandumbrella.Hehadbeenfarfromthesceneofaccident,anddidnotevenknowtherehadbeenone.HestoodamazedatJosephine'spiercingcry;atRichards'quickmotiontoscreenhimfromtheviewofhiswife.ButRichardswastoolate.Whenthedoctorscametheysaidshehaddiedofheartdisease--ofjoythatkills.参考译文1大家都知道马兰德夫人的心脏有毛病，所以在把她丈夫的死讯告诉她时都是小心翼翼的，尽可能地温和委婉。坏消息是由她姐姐约瑟芬告诉她的，连话都没说成句，只敢遮遮掩掩地向她暗示。她丈夫的朋友理查兹也在场，就在她的身旁。当火车事故的消息传来的时候，理查兹正好在报社里，遇难者名单上布兰特雷·马兰德的名字排在首位。他只等到紧接其后的第二份电报证明了消息的真实性后，就急忙赶在了那些不太心细也不太温柔的朋友之前先把这个不幸的消息带了回来。她不像许多别的女人那样，只是带着麻木接受的神情听着这个故事，而是立刻疯狂而绝望地扑倒在姐姐的怀里泪如泉涌。当这暴风雨般的悲伤过去后，她独自回到了自己的房间里，不让任何人跟着她。窗户是开着的，对面放着一把舒服的大扶手椅，她筋疲力尽地沉了进去。这种疲惫不仅折磨着她的身体，似乎也浸入了她的灵魂。透过窗口，她可以看到屋前广场上的树梢在新春的气息中兴奋地颤抖着。空气中弥漫着芬芳的雨的气息。窗下的街道上，一个小贩正在叫卖他的器皿。远处依稀传来缥缈的歌声，数不清的麻雀也在屋檐下叽叽喳喳地唱个不停。对着她窗口西边