Kate Chopin

The Night Came Slowly 

                                                      (prose poem  by Kate Chopin)

I am losing my interest in human beings; in the significance of their lives and their actions. Some one has said it is better to study one man than ten books. I want neither books nor men; they make me suffer. Can one of them talk to me like the night – the Summer night? Like the stars or the caressing wind? 

The night came slowly, softly, as I lay out there under the maple tree. It came creeping, creeping stealthily out of the valley, thinking I did not notice. And the outlines of trees and foliage nearby blended in one black mass and the night came stealing out from them, too, and from the east and west, until the only light was in the sky, filtering through the maple leaves and a star looking down through every cranny. 

The night is solemn and it means mystery. 

Human shapes flitted by like intangible things. Some stole up like little mice to peep at me. I did not mind. My whole being was abandoned to the soothing and penetrating charm of the night.

The katydids began their slumber song: they are at it yet. How wise they are. They do not chatter like people. They tell me only: “sleep, sleep, sleep.” The wind rippled the maple leaves like little warm love thrills. 

Why do fools cumber the Earth! It was a man’s voice that broke the necromancer’s spell. A man came to-day with his “Bible Class.” He is detestable with his red cheeks and bold eyes and coarse manner and speech. What does he know of Christ? Shall I ask a young fool who was born yesterday and will die tomorrow to tell me things of Christ? I would rather ask the stars: they have seen him.    Kate Chopin 

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Kate Chopin (1850 - 1904) was an American novelist and  short story writer who lived in Louisiana. She is best known to have been a forerunner of American 20th-century feminist authors of Southern or Catholic background and, in her day, was one of the most popular writers appearing regularly in many of the most influential magazines. She is also among the most frequently read and recognized writers of Louisiana Creole heritage.

I first discovered her when I stumbled across one of her most anthologized short stories, Story of an Hour, where a woman receives news of her husband’s death in a horrible train wreck and, after the initial shock, experiences a tremendous sense of freedom and liberation. I will mention more about this story later in the essay.

Many of Ms Chopin's stories created controversy because of both the subject matter as well as her unique approach with contemporary critics condemning her fiction as flagrantly immoral. And yet within a few years of her death she was belatedly recognized as a ‘leading writer of her times’. In 1915 Lewis Patel wrote, “ "some of [Chopin's] work is equal to the best that has been produced in France or even in America. [She displayed] what may be described as a native aptitude for narration amounting almost to genius.”

In 1899, The Awakening, her second novel, was published. While some

 newspaper critics reviewed the novel favorably, the critical reception 

was largely negative. The critics considered the behavior of the novel's 

characters, especially the women, as well as Chopin's general treatment 

of female sexuality, motherhood, and marital infidelity, to be in 

conflict with prevailing standards of moral conduct and therefore 

offensive. (Wikipedia)

Chopin's writing style was influenced by her admiration of the contemporary French writer Guy de Maupassant, known for his short stories: “...I read his stories and marveled at them. Here was life, not fiction; for where were the plots, the old fashioned mechanism and stage trapping that in a vague, unthinkable way I had fancied were essential to the art of story making. Here was a man who had escaped from tradition and authority, who had entered into himself and looked out upon life through his own being and with his own eyes; and who, in a direct and simple way, told us what he saw...

Chopin went beyond Maupassant's technique and style to give her 

writing its own flavor. She had an ability to perceive life and 

creatively express it. She concentrated on women's lives and 

their continual struggles to create an identity of their own within 

the Southern society of the late nineteenth century. For instance, in 

"The Story of an Hour", Mrs. Mallard allows herself time to reflect

after learning of her husband's death. Instead of dreading the lonely 

years ahead, she stumbles upon another realization:

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. (Wikipedia)

Not many writers during the mid- to late 19th century were bold enough to deal with subjects that Chopin addressed. Elizabeth Fox-Genovese of Emory University wrote that "Kate was neither a feminist nor a suffragist, she said so. She was nonetheless a woman who took women extremely seriously. She never doubted women's ability to be strong." Ms Fox-Genovese felt that Kate Chopin's sympathies lay with the individual in the context of his and her personal life and society.

What follows are a handful of paragraphs toward the end of Story of an Hour after the main character has learned about her husband’s death in the train accident:

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.

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Just a personal observation: as great as Kate Chopin’s novels might be, I believe the woman was, first and foremost, a consummate storyteller. Her short stories are sublime and if you decide to take a glance at this utterly remarkable creature, read the short fiction first.