Feminist Literary Theory

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Naturalism and the Short Story Form: Kate Chopin’s ‘The
Story of an Hour’
Author: Scott D. Emmert
Date: 2008
From: Scribbling Women and the Short Story Form: Approaches by American and British Women Writers
Publisher: Lang
Reprint In: Short Story Criticism(Vol. 211. )
Document Type: Critical essay
Length: 5,090 words

Full Text:
[(essay date 2008) In the following essay, Emmert cites “The Story of an Hour” as an example of “the structural advantages the short
story has for naturalist writers.” He argues that Chopin “stands squarely within a tradition of American literary naturalism and careful
attention to short story craft, and her naturalist stories demonstrate a deft integration of theme and form.”]

When writing about American literary naturalism, most scholars focus on the novel. Although in their discussions of naturalism critics
may include short stories by certain writers, such as Stephen Crane and Jack London, statements about the structural properties of
naturalist fiction derive exclusively from a study of novels. This close attention to the naturalist novel has yielded valuable insights, to
be sure, because naturalist writers created new ways to tell stories. For example, the plot of decline in which a character degenerates
physically, socially, and even morally over an extended period of time is a naturalist invention, as David Baguley indicates when he
identifies two types of plots of dissolution developed by French naturalist writers (22). In its origins and uses, however, the plot of
decline comes to America as a way of structuring novels only, and as Philip Fisher and June Howard indicate, such a plot served
most obviously to give form to Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie (1900) and Frank Norris’s Vandover and the Brute (1914) (Fisher
169-78; Howard 63-69). In addition to the plot of decline, Fisher finds the structure of naturalist novels to be dependent upon different
“temporary worlds” through which characters carry their desires and seek their identities (138-53).

Short stories, in contrast, cannot easily form narrative with the plot of decline or with a series of temporary worlds. Their length makes
it exceedingly difficult to present the span of time needed to make plausible a character’s gradual degeneration, and at best a short
story may focus successfully on a small number of settings. The short story nonetheless provides advantages to naturalist writers. A
story’s limited length and formal compression may assist writers as they dramatize the oppositional forces arrayed against naturalist
characters. Indeed, often the sense of restriction and entrapment felt by these characters registers with greater inevitability in short
stories than in novels. Just as inventive as naturalist novelists, short story naturalists employed their own formal techniques to
express the theme of determinism. These techniques—including symbolic characterization, the predictive beginning, and the sudden
reversal—can be recognized in Kate Chopin’s masterful “The Story of an Hour”,1 which displays the structural advantages the short
story has for naturalist writers.

At first glance, the work of a woman regionalist writer such as Kate Chopin may appear to be intrinsically opposed to the naturalist
milieu David Shi has described as “a world full of fists” (223). Although Shi’s metaphor emphasizes a violent masculinity, Chopin also
wrote about a kind of violence, one directed against the emotions and psychologies of her female characters in a restrictive, male-
dominated society. While male characters in naturalist stories by men often meet deterministic forces in the larger world of adventure
(e.g., in war or at sea), in the natural environment of desert or arctic wastelands, and in urban squalor, the female characters in
stories by Chopin and other women naturalists discover these forces much closer to home—in their bedrooms, kitchens, and drawing
rooms, in both the biological and gender limits particular to a woman’s experience. In this light, a recent body of scholarship has
identified a distinctive kind of naturalism that chronicles the struggles of women against an array of coercive forces not necessarily
operative for men.2

A basic affinity between the fiction of Kate Chopin and that of other naturalist writers lies in her focus on restricted characters.
Recognizing this focus is essential to understanding much of Chopin’s work, which has been defined as “the fiction of limits” because
“the demarcating limits of human experience” command “the center of attention” (Wolff 133, 127). Along with a psychological
determinism that frequently limits her characters,3 Chopin dramatizes the biological imperatives that circumscribe human behavior.
Certain critics of The Awakening (1899), for example, argue that Edna’s increasing sexual appetite results in her loss of individuality,
becoming a greater factor in her death than oppressive gender roles.4 The desire to portray characters limited by forces beyond their
control may in fact provide one explanation for Chopin’s interest in the short story, a form that is especially well suited to a depiction

of confinement. Critic Andrew Levy has argued that “[a]mong prose genres” the short story “is most like an enclosed space, most
concentrated in form. Among all genres, it is most ‘locked,’ requiring the synthetic closure of an impact-filled beginning and a
dramatic conclusion” (65). Chopin and other naturalist writers found ways to take thematic advantage of these formal requirements to
portray the boundaries imposed by nature and society.

Contrary to long-standing opinion that regarded her as a literary natural who cheerfully struck off stories in a single sitting amid the
clamor of her children, Chopin was a deliberate and diligent artist5 who was drawn to the short story genre. Her output consists of two
novels but nearly one hundred stories and sketches, and Per Seyersted notes that her stories usually number around 3,000 words
with only a few running longer than 5,000 words. Her partiality for the shorter literary form derives in part from a preference for
character and situation over plot and from a desire to control the elements of her fiction to produce a specific effect (Seyersted 116).
Part of her desired effect was to provide, as Seyersted puts it, “a more powerful realism” than that available in the novels of Madame
de Stael and George Sand while still offering “a true picture of the fundamentals of [female] existence” (98). The drama of the
fundamental limits that women face receives a stronger expression in a short story such as “The Story of an Hour” (1894) than in
Chopin’s famous second novel, mainly because of the story’s greater sense of closure.6

A tautly constructed drama that admits little ambiguity, “The Story of an Hour” vividly depicts a sudden loss of freedom. The story
begins by announcing that Mrs. Mallard’s weak heart may be vulnerable to the knowledge that her husband has been killed. Far from
dying of grief, however, Louise Mallard weathers a “storm” of emotion and finds herself becalmed in front of an open window. Outside
of this window lies an “open square We are available in any corner of the world to provide you with the best assignment help. Whether you are a freshman in college or you are in the final semester, whether you are taking help with assignment writing online for the first time or already have an experience of the same, know that we always give reliable help with assignment writing online. We can make your academic days tension-free with our student assignment help service. So, if you want to experience the same again, know why you should choose our hassle-free assignment help online. all aquiver with the new spring of life.” Louise breathes in the “delicious breath of rain” while
her eyes fix on the “blue sky showing here and there through the clouds.” From these sense impressions comes a “subtle and
elusive” awareness, one she cannot resist, cannot “beat We are available in any corner of the world to provide you with the best assignment help. Whether you are a freshman in college or you are in the final semester, whether you are taking help with assignment writing online for the first time or already have an experience of the same, know that we always give reliable help with assignment writing online. We can make your academic days tension-free with our student assignment help service. So, if you want to experience the same again, know why you should choose our hassle-free assignment help online. back with her will.” First she names it, uttering “over and over under her
breath: ‘free, free, free!’” And then she experiences a physical revitalization. When first hearing of her husband’s death, she felt “a
physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul,” but in front of the open window, with the word “free”
on her breath, Louise feels her own pulse, her “coursing blood” (352-53).

Thus enlivened, Louise can clearly recognize what before had been only an elusive “something.” Stretching before her appears to be
“a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. We are available in any corner of the world to provide you with the best assignment help. Whether you are a freshman in college or you are in the final semester, whether you are taking help with assignment writing online for the first time or already have an experience of the same, know that we always give reliable help with assignment writing online. We can make your academic days tension-free with our student assignment help service. So, if you want to experience the same again, know why you should choose our hassle-free assignment help online. 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.” Louise comes into a “possession of self-assertion
which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being” and she looks forward, as she has not before, to a long life
(353).

Louise’s sense of freedom and her greater awareness of an individual self imply, at this stage of the story, her kinship with
protagonists in fiction by literary realists. As Lee Clark Mitchell has persuasively argued, realist characters tend to possess autonomy
unavailable to naturalist characters. An essential self often allows such characters to resist, or at least successfully negotiate,
external forces. The realist character Huckleberry Finn, for example, is able to defy his social conditioning by refusing to return Jim to
slavery. Characters in literary naturalism, in contrast, frequently lack both an essential self and the ability to act independently of “their
strongest desires,” desires that are produced and enforced by biological or social energies (Mitchell 7). Although Louise’s sudden
sense of autonomy, her “possession of self-assertion,” creates an exultant vision, because she is unable to act on this vision, she is
never completely a realist character. This perception of freedom, furthermore, seizes her consciousness against her will. Her feelings
possess her uncontrollably, suggesting her lack of self-possession by insinuating the power of an elemental force.

Louise’s “freedom” is short-lived of course, for her husband is not dead, and when he enters the house, Mrs. Mallard suffers a fatal
heart attack. The story’s last sentence ironically emphasizes the false sentiment behind society’s view of marriage: “When the doctors
came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills” (354). As Emily Toth argues, “The Story of an Hour” offers “a
criticism of marriage itself, as an institution that traps women” (10). If, for an hour, she thinks of herself as unique and independent,
Louise’s fortunes are reversed suddenly, and she dies not out of “joy” but from a traumatic divestment. Louise’s heart fails at her
abrupt return to “Mrs. Mallard,” to her socially constructed identity. In a sense, she is killed by the shock of becoming, finally, a
naturalist character.

Naturalist characters may often be interpreted therefore as symbols of human frailty, pressured as they are by conditions and forces
that tend to erase differences among people and that deny the exercise of a self-defining free will. Characters in short stories,
however, do not require justification for being symbols instead of uniquely represented selves. One reason naturalist novels present
their characters in connection with numerous disparate worlds is that movement through these worlds helps to explain why
characters change over the course of the novel. They change not in some essential core of being, but in the desires that push them
into different sets of circumstances. Conversely, in short stories a character’s motivations do not require the level of explanation
found in novels; as Sean O’Faolain writes, “The characterization of short-stories is always of the simplest” (153). Because readers of
short stories place less emphasis on an extensive elaboration of character, the motives and background of short story characters can
be suggested rather than detailed.7

Consequently, naturalist short stories allow greater freedom for characters to function symbolically, in contrast to novels in which
characters are less easily abstracted from the more abundant referential detail that surrounds them. Taking them as individuals first
and foremost, we expect to know a novel’s characters intimately. The never-named protagonist of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man
(1952), for example, shocks in part because his is the central consciousness in a story of over five-hundred pages. Tellingly,
however, characters in naturalist stories are sometimes not even given proper names, or their names—as is often the case in the
stories of Ambrose Bierce, for instance—are ironically grand designations, pretensions to individuality belied by a reductive plight.

Still, readers tend not to mind so much if a character is not named in a short story. One explanation may be that readers have intuited
that short stories are about incidents, discontinuous slices of time—what Edith Wharton called “situation” (48). Michael Trussler has

argued that because a short story, unlike a novel, “emphasizes the integrity of the singular event, the autonomy of the moment,” it
resists the “totalizing experience” that is expected from a reading of a novel. In novels, the interpretive context, which Trussler defines
as the “encyclopedia” of knowledge provided by the text and by the reader, is more equally weighted between text and reader
(561-62). By providing less textual evidence, however, short stories require greater interpretive effort. Aware of the need for
compression and trusting the reader’s greater attention, short story writers are freer to insinuate meanings, to provide less
characterization, less explanation.

A symbolic use of detail, including characters, is one method of achieving thematic compression in the short story. Theorizing about
the ways stories realize “compression rather than expansion,” Charles E. May argues that in short fiction characters become “stylized
figures rather than ‘real people’” (64). Similarly, Suzanne Hunter Brown maintains that the “[t]echnical factors” of short stories “lead
many short story writers to project an individual’s nature as an essential given” (199). The naturalists’ interest in portraying mostly
static characters that lack an essential identity is therefore assisted by the short story form. Interpreted as a symbol, Mrs. Mallard in “
The Story of an Hour” has often been seen as representative of married, middle-class women in 1890s America, women who were
subjected to a strict set of social codes that governed female desire and identity. Allusively, in one definition “mallard” means male
duck: Mrs. Mallard’s identity is certainly determined by the socially sanctioned prerogatives of the male, particularly the defining
power to name.

The abrupt change in status near the end of the story—the sudden shift from “Louise” to “Mrs. Mallard” and, of course, her swift
death—most clearly dramatizes Mrs. Mallard’s loss. In place of the plot of decline, naturalist short story writers often employed
peripeteia, a sudden reversal of fortune, to emphasize the determined circumstances of their bounded characters. “The Story of an
Hour” is similar in this regard to other short stories that are more commonly identified with literary naturalism. Crane’s “The Open
Boat,” for instance, features the unexpected death of the most capable character, and London’s “To Build a Fire” stages nature’s
unforeseen dangers, most memorably the results of a misplaced fire. In these stories, circumstances intrude when characters feel the
most liberated, the most confident, or the most secure. By quickly overturning these feelings, each story violently contradicts the
illusion of personal control over events.

Although the ending of “The Story of an Hour” may, as Chopin likely hoped, take readers by surprise, it is nevertheless
foreshadowed by the opening paragraphs. In fact, the beginnings of naturalist stories often predict endings in which characters
succumb to external circumstances. Naturalist stories frequently begin by instantly establishing the dramatic situation, creating
immediacy by quickly moving readers over the “ontological gap” that separates the world of the reader from the different reality of the
story.8 The need to interest readers of the periodicals in which naturalist writers published can explain the immediacy of their stories’
first sentences. But in addition to appealing to readers beset with rapidly increasing demands on their attention and leisure, the
beginnings of naturalist stories have thematic significance. The famous first lines of “The Open Boat,” for example, not only place the
reader within a particular setting but also within a perception of that setting, thereby announcing the story’s epistemological theme.9

A more general theme inheres at the start of many naturalist short stories, however, because frequently these stories begin by putting
characters in danger or placing them amid confining circumstances. Unlike naturalist novels, whose opening paragraphs do not
necessarily foreshadow inevitable decline or dissolution, short story naturalism often seeks to reduce suspense and thereby suggest
the inevitability of defeat. While naturalist novels commonly depict a character’s decline over time, characters in naturalist short
stories are regularly placed immediately in crisis. One senses the protagonist’s dire predicament in the opening paragraphs of “To
Build a Fire,” for instance. And the first sentence of “Before the Low Green Door,” a naturalist story by Hamlin Garland, announces
the approaching death of the suggestively named Matilda Bent, an overworked farmer’s wife. From their beginnings, these stories
confront characters with the insurmountable, implying subsequent reversals of the characters’ misguided sense of freedom and
foreshadowing an ultimate submission.

“The Story of an Hour” also declares the protagonist’s present danger: “Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with heart trouble,
great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death” (352). The story’s opening sentence
immediately establishes Mrs. Mallard’s “heart trouble,” but it also presents the presupposition that a wife’s life and emotional stability
(her “heart”) will naturally be threatened by “the news of her husband’s death.” This sentence indicates both the reality of sudden
death and the societal assumptions that affected women in the late nineteenth century. Mrs. Mallard is, from the beginning, confined
both physically and socially. Subtly her end has been predicted to allow the story’s conclusion to come as a credible surprise. This
matching of beginning and ending, moreover, provides a structural and thematic “lock” to complete both the story’s narrative
trajectory and Mrs. Mallard’s fate.

The second paragraph of “The Story of an Hour” introduces another significant element in naturalist fiction. This element may
conveniently be labeled the “familiar uncommon,” and here it is represented by the “railroad disaster” that has supposedly killed Mrs.
Mallard’s husband. The desire among naturalist writers to depict the unusual experience found in everyday life10 led them to combine
the probability of realism with the extraordinary qualities of romance, much in the manner of the yellow press of the time, which
reported sensational stories as part of day-to-day events. Familiar but uncommon events significant in naturalist fiction by other
authors include the real murders that inform Norris’s McTeague (1899) and Dreiser’s An American Tragedy (1925), and the incidents
of shipwreck found in Vandover and the Brute and London’s The Sea-Wolf (1904). In addition to murders and shipwrecks, railroad
accidents captured a great deal of press attention. Similar to today’s airplane crashes, these accidents were reported with front-page
emphasis. One of Dreiser’s first big stories as a newspaper reporter, for example, was a train wreck that occurred outside of St.
Louis, Missouri, in the early 1890s. A personally meaningful train disaster for the longtime St. Louis resident Kate Chopin resulted in
the death of her father, Thomas O’Flaherty, who was killed in 1855 when a railroad bridge collapsed.

In naturalist short stories, the familiar uncommon may provide a central dramatic situation, as is the case with the shipwrecked
characters in “The Open Boat.” Though not central, the “train disaster” in “The Story of an Hour” certainly helps to establish the
dramatic circumstances. More important, however, is its suggestive purpose, the way it plants in the reader’s mind the issue of

sudden death in a manner that may be more “realistic” to contemporary readers, and that functions more obviously than the
implications of a woman’s weak heart. On first reading, this suggestion may not lessen the impact of the abrupt death that ends the
story, but in retrospect this detail certainly helps to support the story’s theme of the powerless individual.

The formal compression required by short stories emphasizes individual details like this one. Such compression also places greater
importance on the ending, which arguably functions differently in short stories than in novels.11 In addition to providing, as Levy
writes, an expected “dramatic conclusion,” the endings of short stories often enforce an interpretive re-orientation by requiring readers
to “sweep back through the story” and judge its details in relation to the finale (Trussler 572). Short story endings have a “shaping
influence” in that they often obligate the reader to re-examine details for missed or misplaced significance (Trussler 573).

The ironic last sentence of “The Story of an Hour” (“When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that
kills,” 354) shapes our understanding by requiring a re-examination of the story’s seemingly straight-forward details. In this way, the
social determinism becomes clear. Along with grasping the central irony that Mrs. Mallard does not die when she learns her husband
is dead but when he turns up alive, readers may discover other, more subtle ironies, including the sense of restriction found in the
single setting: Louise feels herself to be free, but she never leaves the house. The ending reveals, furthermore, that the most violent
force in the story is not a derailed train but a gendered set of social expectations—a husband who will enforce his “private will” on a
wife and a public opinion that rigidly normalizes the oppressive dynamics of marriage. The irony in the last sentence is, of course,
available only to readers. As unironic pronouncement its finality is implacable for the story’s remaining characters. To them, Mrs.
Mallard will be remembered as the tender-hearted wife, and her private suspicion of marriage as a barrier to personal liberty will
never be known. In the end, Chopin has dramatized the peril of a socially determined identity while recognizing the difficulty—maybe
even, for women in the 1890s, the near impossibility—of opposing society for the sake of individual freedom.12

While “The Story of an Hour” provides an example of social determinism, other stories also reflect the influence of naturalism on
Chopin’s fiction. These stories demonstrate, moreover, an important development in American literary naturalism. In stories such as
“La Belle Zoraïde”, “Athénaïse”, and “Désirée’s Baby” Chopin registers the biological forces arrayed against her female
protagonists, thus clearly falling within the male tradition of American naturalist fiction. Her concentration in these and other stories on
sexual passion and the female reproductive role aligns her with the male naturalists’ emphasis on innate physical drives—what
Dreiser called “chemisms.” She marks a stage in the development of naturalist fiction, however, by going beyond natural determinism
to demonstrate the seamless connection between a woman’s biological imperatives and her social roles. To be sure, Chopin was not
alone in her presentation of social determinism, for a fair measure of such determinism shows up in fiction by Stephen Crane. But
unlike Crane, whose stories often present separate naturalist dramas, one in nature and one in society, Chopin combines the natural
and social worlds to demonstrate the ways in which these worlds remain inseparable for women.13

By making this connection Chopin is able to raise issues of miscegenation and heredity to express the taboo subjects of female
sexuality and racial “purity.” Taboo or “sordid” subject matter was claimed by male naturalist writers, from Emile Zola to Frank Norris,
as an important and even necessary foundation for a new kind of fiction. But while male writers tended to confine themselves to a
depiction of the lower classes, Chopin portrayed both marginalized and middle-class women who are compelled by similar
deterministic forces. Her stories exhibit, therefore, an early signal of naturalism’s spread beyond a lower class, male-centered milieu.
Thus much of Chopin’s short fiction presages Edith Wharton’s class-bound women, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s doomed social climbers, and
the snare of Southern history that traps William Faulkner’s characters. She stands squarely within a tradition of American literary
naturalism and careful attention to short story craft, and her naturalist stories demonstrate a deft integration of theme and form.

Notes

1. First published as “The Dream of an Hour” in Vogue on December 6, 1894.

2. Donald Pizer, for instance, locates a social determinism—the “theme of the entrapment of women within social codes and
taboos”—in “a great deal of fiction by women about women” (14). In addition, Susan Ward places a number of nineteenth-century
women writers within the parameters of naturalism, among them Chopin, Edith Wharton, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Rebecca
Harding Davis. Donna M. Campbell argues that both Wharton and Chopin “attempt [a] fusion of naturalism and local color” (148), and
she cites a number of studies that consider naturalism in Wharton’s novels (205, n6). See also the unpublished dissertation by Linda
Ann Kornasky.

3. In a critique of Hamlin Garland’s literary theories, Chopin argues for a timelessness in human psychology: “Human impulses do not
change and can not so long as men and women continue to stand in the relation to one another which they have occupied since our
knowledge of their existence began” (“Crumbling Idols” 693). Nancy Walker argues that Edna in The Awakening “resembles a
sleepwalker” who, unable to understand her psychological motivations, “is not really in control of herself” (101).

4. Walker and Karen Simons.

5. Chopin carefully cultivated the public view that she was not an assiduous artist but a widow who casually wrote stories to help
support her family. In 1923, Fred Lewis Pattee wrote, erroneously, of her method: “Without models, without study or short-story art,
without revision, and usually at a sitting, she produced what often are masterpieces before which one can only wonder and
conjecture” (327). Years later, Seyersted quotes her claim that she was a …

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