The Yellow Wallpaper [3]
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
wall-paper. Perhaps BECAUSE of the wall-paper.
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 principle 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" with
delirium tremens--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, and that
adds wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and
there, when the crosslights 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 centre 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 musn'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 wish 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 it 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 any 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 wall-paper.
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 any more--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
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
wall-paper. Perhaps BECAUSE of the wall-paper.
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 principle 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" with
delirium tremens--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, and that
adds wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and
there, when the crosslights 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 centre 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 musn'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 wish 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 it 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 any 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 wall-paper.
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 any more--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