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In the scary story buffet laid out during the
latter half of the nineteenth century, women started taking their rightful
place at table. These were fantastic authors like Elizabeth Gaskell, Louisa May
Alcott, Lady Emilia Frances Dilke, Edith Nesbit, and Ellen Wood. For the first
time Victorian reserve and sensibilities began to be slowly pushed aside to
clear the way for women who penned stories in the horror and ghost story genres.
Many of them started using their real names instead of writing under pseudonyms
or using just letters before their surnames so the sex of the author was
unclear.
Charlotte Perkins
Gilman was neither afraid of using her real name nor publishing in the
supernatural genre that had primarily been the haunt of men. Gilman was one of
the best in crafting storylines and getting inside the heads of fictional
characters. Despite her overwhelming talents as a fiction author and the
increasing number of women authors entering the supernatural scene, Gilman was
acutely aware she was an outsider in the Victorian Age.
She was an early American
feminist who wrote excellent poems and short stories, including “The Rocking
Chair” (1893) and “The Unwatched Door” (1894). Her ghost story “The Giant
Wistaria,” one of three she penned, was published in 1890 in the New England Magazine. That same
magazine would publish her most famous story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” two years
later.
“The Yellow Wallpaper”
draws from a dark time in her life when she suffered postpartum depression and
became bedridden. It was published three years after she divorced her husband
and nearly eight years after she gave birth to her daughter Katharine. The
horror thriller draws certain parallels to Anton Chekov’s tightly-wound tale “Sleepyhead”(1888).
Yet “Sleepyhead,” though more sinister, fails in both character generation and
writing style.
The nervous protagonist
of “The Yellow Wallpaper” further draws parallels to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The
Tell-Tale Heart” (1843), published some 50 years earlier. The nervousness,
however, builds more slowly in Gilman’s story, and to great effect. The first
line in Poe’s story reads:
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and
am; but why will you say that I am mad?
Unlike “The Tell-TaleHeart,” the first line of “The Yellow Wallpaper” foretells nothing of what is
to come in the story. Still, Gilman builds her story into one of the creepiest
endings in horror literature.
The
Yellow Wallpaper
1892
IT IS VERY seldom that mere ordinary people
like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a
hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of
romantic felicity,—but that would be asking too much of fate!
Still I will proudly
declare that there is something queer about it. Else, why should it be let so
cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?
John laughs at me, of
course, but one expects that in marriage. John is practical in the extreme. He
has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs
openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician,
and perhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is
dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one
reason I do not get well faster.
You see, he does not
believe I am sick! And what can one do?
If a physician of high
standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is
really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression,—a slight
hysterical tendency,—what is one to do?
My brother is also a
physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take
phosphates or phosphites, [Salt having minerals and used as an oral tonic to
rejuvenate health]—whichever it is,—and tonics, and journeys, and air, and
exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.
Personally I disagree
with their ideas.
Personally I believe
that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while
in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly
about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that
in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but
John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I
confess it always makes me feel bad.
So I will let it alone
and talk about the house.
The most beautiful
place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles
from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for
there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little
houses for the gardeners and people.
There is a delicious
garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered
paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them. There
were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now. There was some legal
trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and co-heirs; anyhow, the place
has been empty for years.
That spoils my
ghostliness, I am afraid; but I don’t care—there is something strange about the
house—I can feel it.
I even said so to John
one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a draught, and
shut the window.
I get unreasonably
angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it
is due to this nervous condition. But John says if I feel so I shall neglect
proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself,—before him, at
least,—and that makes me very tired.
I don’t like our room a
bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over
the window, and such pretty, old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not
hear of it.
He said there was only
one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took
another. He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special
direction.
I have a schedule
prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel
basely ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here
solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I
could get. “Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,” said he, “and
your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time.” So
we took the nursery, at the top of the house.
It is a big, airy room,
the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine
galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge;
for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things
in the walls.
The paint and paper
look as if a boys’ school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great
patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a
great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper
in my life.
One of those sprawling
flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.
It is dull enough to
confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and
provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little
distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy
themselves in unheard-of contradictions.
The color is repellant,
almost revolting; a smoldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by
the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a
sickly sulphur tint in others.
No wonder the children
hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.
There comes John, and I
must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.
***
We have been here two weeks, and I
haven’t felt like writing before, since that first day.
I am sitting by the
window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my
writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.
John is away all day,
and even some nights when his cases are serious.
I am glad my case is
not serious!
But these nervous
troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how
much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that
satisfies him.
Of course it is only
nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!
I meant to be such a
help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative
burden already! Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I
am able—to dress and entertain, and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is
so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I cannot be
with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never
was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper!
At first he meant to
repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better
of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to
such fancies.
He said that after the wallpaper
was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and
then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.
“You know the place is
doing you good,” he said, “and really, dear, I don’t care to renovate the house
just for a three months’ rental.”
“Then do let us go
downstairs,” I said, “there are such pretty rooms there.”
Then he took me in his
arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if
I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough
about the beds and windows and things. It is as airy and comfortable a room as
any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him
uncomfortable just for a whim.
I’m really getting
quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.
Out of one window I can
see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned
flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a
lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There
is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy
I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned
me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative
power and habit of storymaking a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to
all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense
to check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that
if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of
ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty
tired when I try.
It is so discouraging
not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well
John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says
he would as soon put fireworks in my pillowcase as to let me have those
stimulating people about now.
I wish I could get well
faster.
But I must not think
about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew what a
vicious influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot
where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you
upside down.
I got positively angry
with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways
they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one
place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the
line, one a little higher than the other.
I never saw so much
expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression
they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and
terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in
a toy store.
I remember what a
kindly wink the knobs of our big old bureau used to have, and there was one
chair that always seemed like a strong friend. I used to feel that if any of
the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be
safe.
The furniture in this
room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from
downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the
nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children
have made here.
The wallpaper, as I
said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—they
must have had perseverance as well as hatred.
Then the floor is
scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and
there, and this great heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if
it had been through the wars.
But I don’t mind it a
bit—only the paper.
There comes John’s
sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her
find me writing.
She is a perfect, an
enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe
she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!
But I can write when
she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.
There is one that
commands the road, a lovely, shaded, winding road, and one that just looks off
over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.
This wallpaper has a
kind of subpattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you
can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.
But in the places where
it isn’t faded, and where the sun is just so, I can see a strange, provoking,
formless sort of figure, that seems to sulk about behind that silly and
conspicuous front design.
There’s sister on the
stairs!
***
Well, the Fourth of July is over! The
people are all gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to see
a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a
week.
Of course I didn’t do a
thing. Jennie sees to everything now.
But it tired me all the
same.
John says if I don’t
pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall. But I don’t want
to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he
is just like John and my brother, only more so!
Besides, it is such an
undertaking to go so far.
I don’t feel as if it
was worthwhile to turn my hand over for anything, and I’m getting dreadfully
fretful and querulous.
I cry at nothing, and
cry most of the time.
Of course I don’t when
John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.
And I am alone a good
deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is
good and lets me alone when I want her to.
So I walk a little in
the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie
down up here a good deal.
I’m getting really fond
of the room in spite of the wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper.
It dwells in my mind
so!
I lie here on this
great immovable bed—it is nailed down, I believe—and follow that pattern about
by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we’ll say, at
the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I
determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless
pattern to some sort of a conclusion.
I know a little of the
principles of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of
radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I
ever heard of.
It is repeated, of
course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.
Looked at in one way,
each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of “debased
Romanesque” [Type of architectural punctuated by semi-circular arches] with delirium
tremens [Quick onset of
frustration or confusion, usually caused by alcohol or stimulant withdrawal]—go
waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity.
But, on the other hand,
they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting
waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.
The whole thing goes
horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to
distinguish the order of its going in that direction. They have used a
horizontal breadth for a frieze, [Artsy horizontal paper strip] and that adds
wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the
room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the
low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation, after all,—the
interminable grotesques seem to form around a common center and rush off in
headlong plunges of equal distraction.
It makes me tired to
follow it. I will take a nap, I guess.
I don’t know
why I should write this.
I don’t want to.
I don’t feel able.
And I know John would
think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and think in some way—it is
such a relief!
But the effort is
getting to be greater than the relief.
Half the time now I am
awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.
John says I mustn’t
lose my strength, and has me take cod-liver oil and lots of tonics and things,
to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.
Dear John! He loves me
very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest
reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wished he would
let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.
But he said I wasn’t
able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a
very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished.
It is getting to be a
great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness, I suppose.
And dear John gathered
me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat
by me and read to me till he tired my head.
He said I was his
darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of
myself for his sake, and keep well. He says no one but myself can help me out
of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let my silly fancies
run away with me.
There’s one comfort,
the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the
horrid wallpaper.
If we had not used it
that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn’t have a
child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.
I never thought of it
before, but it is lucky that John kept me here, after all. I can stand it so
much easier than a baby, you see. Of course I never mention it to them anymore,—I
am too wise,—but I keep watch of it all the same.
There are things in
that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.
Behind that outside
pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.
It is always the same
shape, only very numerous.
And it is like a woman
stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don’t like it a bit. I
wonder—I begin to think—I wish John would take me away from here!
It is so hard to
talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me
so.
But I tried it last
night.
It was moonlight. The
moon shines in all around, just as the sun does.
I hate to see it
sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another.
John was asleep and I
hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that
undulating wallpaper till I felt creepy.
The faint figure behind
seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out.
I got up softly and
went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came
back John was awake.
“What is it, little
girl?” he said. “Don’t go walking about like that—you’ll get cold.”
I thought it was a good
time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I
wished he would take me away.
“Why, darling!” said
he, “our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can’t see how to leave before.
“The repairs are not
done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were
in any danger I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you
can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and
color, your appetite is better. I feel really much easier about you.”
“I don’t weigh a bit
more,” said I, ”nor as
much; and my appetite may be better in the evening, when you are here, but it
is worse in the morning, when you are away.”
“Bless her little
heart!” said he with a big hug; “she shall be as sick as she pleases. But now
let’s improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the
morning.”
“And you won’t go away?”
I asked gloomily.
“Why, how can I, dear?
It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a few
days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really, dear, you are better!”
“Better in body,
perhaps”—I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at
me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.
“My darling,” said he, “I
beg of you, for my sake and for our child’s sake, as well as for your own, that
you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing
so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and
foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so?”
So of course I said no
more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep
first, but I wasn’t,—I lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front
pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.
On a pattern like
this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a
constant irritant to a normal mind.
The color is hideous
enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is
torturing.
You think you have
mastered it, but just as you get well under way in following, it turns a back
somersault, and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and
tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.
The outside pattern is
a florid arabesque, [Floral surface decoration set in linear patterns] reminding
one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable
string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions,—why, that
is something like it.
That is, sometimes!
There is one marked
peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and
that is that it changes as the light changes.
When the sun shoots in
through the east window—I always watch for that first long, straight ray—it
changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.
That is why I watch it
always.
By moonlight—the moon
shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn’t know it was the same paper.
At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst
of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern, I mean, and the
woman behind it is as plain as can be.
I didn’t realize for a
long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now
I am quite sure it is a woman.
By daylight she is
subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so
puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.
I lie down ever so much
now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can. Indeed, he started
the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.
It is a very bad habit,
I am convinced, for, you see, I don’t sleep.
And that cultivates
deceit, for I don’t tell them I’m awake,— oh, no!
The fact is, I am
getting a little afraid of John.
He seems very queer
sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look. It strikes me
occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis, that perhaps it is the paper!
I have watched John
when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most
innocent excuses, and I’ve caught him several times looking at the paper and
Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.
She didn’t know I was
in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most
restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper she turned around
as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry—asked me why I
should frighten her so!
Then she said that the
paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all
my clothes and John’s, and she wished we would be more careful!
Did not that sound
innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that
nobody shall find it out but myself!
Life is very much more
exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to
look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I
was.
John is so pleased to
see me improve! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be
flourishing in spite of my wallpaper.
I turned it off with a
laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the
wallpaper—he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.
I don’t want to leave
now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be
enough.
I’m feeling ever
so much better! I don’t sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch
developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.
In the daytime it is
tiresome and perplexing. There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new
shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, though I
have tried conscientiously.
It is the strangest
yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw—not
beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.
But there is something
else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room,
but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and
rain, and whether the windows are open or not the smell is here.
It creeps all over the
house.
I find it hovering in
the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for
me on the stairs.
It gets into my hair.
Even when I go to ride,
if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar
odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled
like.
It is not bad—at first,
and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this
damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over
me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to
reach the smell.
But now I am used to
it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of
the paper—a yellow smell!
There is a very funny
mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs around the
room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long,
straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over.
I wonder how it was
done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round—round
and round and round—it makes me dizzy!
I really have
discovered something at last.
Through watching so
much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.
The front pattern does
move—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!
Sometimes I think there
are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around
fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.
Then in the very bright
spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the
bars and shakes them hard.
And she is all the time
trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it
strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.
They get through, and
then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside-down, and makes their
eyes white!
If those heads were
covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.
I think that
woman gets out in the daytime!
And I’ll tell you
why—privately—I’ve seen her!
I can see her out of
every one of my windows! It is the same woman, I know, for she is always
creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.
I see her in that long
shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in those dark grape arbors,
creeping all around the garden. I see her on that long road under the trees,
creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines.
I don’t blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by
daylight! I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can’t do it at
night, for I know John would suspect something at once.
And John is so queer,
now, that I don’t want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room!
Besides, I don’t want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.
I often wonder if I
could see her out of all the windows at once. But, turn as fast as I can, I can
only see out of one at one time. And though I always see her she may be
able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her
sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a
high wind.
If only that top
pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by
little.
I have found out
another funny thing, but I shan’t tell it this time! It does not do to trust
people too much.
There are only two more
days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don’t
like the look in his eyes.
And I heard him ask
Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to
give.
She said I slept a good
deal in the daytime.
John knows I don’t sleep
very well
at night, for all I’m
so quiet!
He asked me all sorts
of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.
As if I couldn’t see
through him!
Still, I don’t wonder
he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.
It only interests me,
but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.
***
Hurrah! This is the last day, but it
is enough. John is to stay in town overnight, and won’t be out until this
evening.
Jennie wanted to sleep
with me—the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a
night all alone. That was clever, for really I wasn’t alone a bit! As soon as
it was moonlight, and that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I
got up and ran to help her.
I pulled and she shook,
I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that
paper.
A strip about as high
as my head and half around the room.
And then when the sun
came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me I declared I would finish
it today!
We go away tomorrow,
and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were
before.
Jennie looked at the
wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at
the vicious thing. She laughed and said she wouldn’t mind doing it herself, but
I must not get tired.
How she betrayed
herself that time!
But I am here, and no person
touches this paper but me—not alive!
She tried to get me out
of the room—it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean
now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to
wake me even for dinner—I would call when I woke.
So now she is gone, and
the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing left but
that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it.
We shall sleep
downstairs tonight, and take the boat home tomorrow.
I quite enjoy the room,
now it is bare again.
How those children did
tear about here!
This bedstead is fairly
gnawed! But I must get to work. I have locked the door and thrown the key down
into the front path.
I don’t want to go out,
and I don’t want to have anybody come in, till John comes.
I want to astonish him.
I’ve got a rope up here
that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get
away, I can tie her! But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to
stand on!
This bed will not move!
I tried to lift and
push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at
one corner—but it hurt my teeth.
Then I peeled off all
the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the
pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling
fungus growths just shriek with derision!
I am getting angry
enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable
exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.
Besides, I wouldn’t do
it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and
might be misconstrued.
I don’t like to look
out of the windows even—there are so many of those creeping women, and they
creep so fast.
I wonder if they all
come out of that wallpaper, as I did?
But I am securely fastened
now by my well-hidden rope—you don’t get me out in the road there!
I suppose I shall have
to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!
It is so pleasant to be
out in this great room and creep around as I please!
I don’t want to go
outside. I won’t, even if Jennie asks me to.
For outside you have to
creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.
But here I can creep
smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the
wall, so I cannot lose my way.
Why, there’s John at
the door!
It is no use, young
man, you can’t open it!
How he does call and
pound!
Now he’s crying for an
axe.
It would be a shame to
break down that beautiful door!
“John, dear!” said I in
the gentlest voice, “the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!”
That silenced him for a
few moments.
Then he said—very
quietly indeed, “Open the door, my darling!”
“I can’t,” said I. “The
key is down by the front door, under a plantain leaf!”
And then I said it
again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had
to go and see, and he got it, of course, and came in. He stopped short by the
door.
“What is the matter?”
he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing!”
I kept on creeping just
the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.
“I’ve got out at last,”
said I, “in spite of you and Jane. And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so
you can’t put me back!”
Now why should that man
have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had
to creep over him every time!
#YellowWallpaper #InsanityStories #HorrorStories #AndrewBarger
