Charlotte Perkins Gilman - "The Yellow Wallpaper" - 1892

🌌✨ "The Yellow Wallpaper" (1892) – A Tale of Oppression and Liberation 🖼️🕯️

This gripping and symbolic short story captures the suffocating reality of a woman trapped by societal and marital expectations. Narrated in the first person, it tells the story of a young woman who is confined to a room with peeling yellow wallpaper as part of a "rest cure" prescribed by her physician husband. 💼🏡 Supposedly for her own good, she is forbidden from working or engaging in creative activities, leaving her isolated and powerless.The yellow wallpaper in the room becomes an obsession as the narrator begins to see a trapped figure within its intricate, chaotic patterns. The wallpaper symbolizes her own confinement and growing desperation. As her mental state deteriorates, she descends into madness, believing she must free the woman trapped in the wallpaper—a haunting metaphor for her own struggle against patriarchal oppression.


🎨 Charlotte Perkins Gilman – A Visionary Feminist Author 🌟✨

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935) was a pioneering writer, lecturer, and advocate for women's rights, whose works remain vital to understanding the struggles for gender equality. Her masterful ability to intertwine psychological depth with societal critique has solidified her legacy, particularly through her most famous story.

🌟 A Lasting Legacy
Gilman’s "The Yellow Wallpaper" is more than a story; it is a profound critique of the medical and social treatment of women in the 19th century. Its vivid portrayal of mental health and the constraints of gender roles has made it a cornerstone of feminist literature, sparking discussions about autonomy, identity, and liberation that continue to resonate today.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper, published in eighteen ninety two.
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

(00:20):
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.

(00:44):
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.

(01:08):
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,

(01:31):
and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates
or phosphates, 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

(01:55):
do me good. But what is one to do. I
did fight 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,

(02:15):
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

(02:36):
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

(02:59):
are all broke now. There was some legal trouble. I
believe something about the heirs and co airs. 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

(03:21):
what I felt was a draft 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

(03:43):
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

(04:04):
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

(04:24):
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 ere 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

(04:45):
all ways and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first,
and then playground and gymnasium 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 boy's school had used it. It is stripped
off the paper in great patches all around the head

(05:07):
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.

(05:29):
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 repellent,
almost revolting, a smoldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the
slow turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange,

(05:51):
in some places, a sickly sulfur 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

(06:11):
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.

(06:36):
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

(07:01):
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

(07:24):
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 gait at the
head of the stairs and so on. You know, the

(07:45):
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,

(08:05):
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 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

(08:29):
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

(08:51):
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 story made, making
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

(09:13):
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

(09:34):
pillow case 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 lulls like
a broken neck, and two bulbous eyes stare at you
upside down. I get positively angry with the impertinence of

(09:59):
it and the ever lastingness. 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

(10:21):
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

(10:43):
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 play room, they had to take
the nursery things out, and no wonder I never saw
such ravages as the children have made here. The wallpaper,

(11:07):
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

(11:29):
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 and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession.
I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which

(11:49):
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 two full of great elms and velvet meadows.

(12:10):
This wall paper has a kind of sub pattern 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.

(12:36):
The fourth of July is over, the people are 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. Jenny sees to
everything now, but it tired me all the same. John says,

(12:58):
if I don't pick up faster, he shall send me
to where 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 worth while to turn

(13:19):
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 Jenny is

(13:41):
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

(14:05):
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.

(14:26):
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 bread stands alone. The bloated curves and

(14:47):
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 the
sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror,
like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase. The

(15:07):
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 cross lights

(15:28):
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,

(15:51):
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,

(16:13):
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.

(16:36):
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

(16:57):
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, in 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.

(17:20):
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.

(17:41):
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,

(18:01):
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

(18:21):
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

(18:44):
and always comes in by one window or another. John
was asleep, and I hated to waken him. So I
kept still and watch 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,

(19:06):
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,

(19:28):
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

(19:50):
appetite is better. I feel really much easier about you.
I don't weigh a bit more, said I, nor as much.
And my app petite 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

(20:11):
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 Jenny is getting the house ready. Really, dear,

(20:35):
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

(20:56):
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

(21:18):
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,

(21:40):
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 reminding

(22:03):
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

(22:25):
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

(22:46):
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

(23:08):
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

(23:32):
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 Jenny has an inexplicable look.

(23:57):
It strikes me occasionally, just as a science tic 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
Jenny too. I caught Jenny with her hand on it

(24:17):
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

(24:39):
smooches on all my clothes and johns, 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 or to expect,

(25:01):
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

(25:22):
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.

(25:46):
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 the strangest yellow
that wall paper. It makes me think of all the
yellow things I ever saw, not beautiful ones like buttercups,

(26:08):
but old fowl, 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

(26:28):
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

(26:52):
hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it
smelled like. It is not bad at first, and very gentle,
but white, 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

(27:15):
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 mop board, a streak
that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece

(27:36):
of furniture except the bed, a long, straight, even smooth,
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

(27:59):
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.

(28:20):
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

(28:42):
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,

(29:04):
and most women do not creep by daylight. I see
her on 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

(29:27):
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

(29:50):
want anybody to get that woman out at night. But
myself I often wondered 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,

(30:12):
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 at this time. It does not do to trust
people too much. There are only two more days to

(30:34):
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 Jenny 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,

(30:55):
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 Jenny

(31:16):
are secretly affected by it. Hurrah. This is the last day,
but it is enough. John is to stay in town
over night and won't be out until this evening. Jenny
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

(31:39):
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

(32:02):
began to laugh at me, I declared I would finish
it to day. We go away tomorrow, and they are
moving all my furniture down again to leave things as
they were before. Jenny 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

(32:23):
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,

(32:44):
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 I
shall sleep downstairs tonight and take the boat home tomorrow.

(33:04):
I quite enjoy the room now it is bare again.
How those children did teer 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.

(33:27):
I want to astonish him. I've got a rope up
here that even Jenny 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,

(33:48):
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 bulbousizes and
waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision. I am getting

(34:10):
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

(34:32):
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

(34:54):
this great room and creep around as I please. I
don't want to go outside. I won't even if Jenny
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,

(35:15):
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

(35:38):
the gentlest voice. The key is down by the front steps,
under a plant in 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 plant in leaf. And

(35:59):
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

(36:20):
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

(36:41):
had to creep over him every time.