The Yellow Wallpaper and "What Diantha Did". Charlotte Perkins Gilman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, and 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 underway 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, 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, candle light, 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—O 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 wall-paper.

      I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wall-paper—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 wall-paper! 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.

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