Now that we have finished The Yellow Wallpaper, you will each write a two paragraph response to the text. Your response must include the following:
The next vocabulary quiz is next Friday, December 9. The vocabulary words are from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which we will introduce Friday and begin reading Monday.
The narrator of this text can be viewed as a tragic heroine struggling against a patriarchal society, an outsider whose illness is used to set her apart from others, a young woman who chronicles her own descent into madness, or perhaps the victim of supernatural forces. She could be any or all of these and more. What theme stands out to you—madness, patriarchy, or the supernatural? Is the narrator ultimately a victim or a hero? Explain your reasoning.
"The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Learning Targets:
I can determine two or more themes or central ideas of a text and analyze their development over the course of the text, including how they interact and build on one another to produce a complex account; provide an objective summary of the text.
I can analyze the impact of the author's choices regarding how to develop and relate elements of a story or drama (e.g., where a story is set, how the action is ordered, how the characters are introduced and developed).
I can determine the meaning of words and phrases as they are used in the text, including figurative and connotative meanings; analyze the impact of specific word choices on meaning and tone, including words with multiple meanings or language that is particularly fresh, engaging, or beautiful.
I can analyze how an author's choices concerning how to structure specific parts of a text (e.g., the choice of where to begin or end a story, the choice to provide a comedic or tragic resolution) contribute to its overall structure and meaning as well as its aesthetic impact.
I can evaluate a speaker's point of view, reasoning, and use of evidence and rhetoric, assessing the stance, premises, links among ideas, word choice, points of emphasis, and tone used.
Remember:
We are writing M for "madness" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of madness.
We are writing S for "supernatural" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of the supernatural (ghosts, hauntings, etc).
We are writing P for "patriarchy" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of patriarchy (a male-dominated society in which anyone who is not male is disempowered in virtue of that).
Remember:
We are writing M for "madness" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of madness.
We are writing S for "supernatural" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of the supernatural (ghosts, hauntings, etc).
We are writing P for "patriarchy" in the margins of the text when we see indications of the theme of patriarchy (a male-dominated society in which anyone who is not male is disempowered in virtue of that).
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The Yellow Wallpaper
(647)
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!
(S/M: This description of the house could foreshadow an actual haunting, or it could foreshadow her descent into madness due to her imaginative personality)
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?
(S: Classic haunted house: unoccupied under mysterious circumstances)
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
(P: This sentence seems to say that while the narrator isn't taken seriously, she never expected a husband to do so anyway)
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?
(648)
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.
(P: Both of the men dismiss the narrator's claims that there is actually something the matter with her, saying instead that the only problem is her "nervous depression" or "hysterical tendency")
So I take phosphates or phosphites - 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.
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!
(S/M: This description of the house could foreshadow an actual haunting, or it could foreshadow her descent into madness due to her imaginative personality)
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?
(S: Classic haunted house: unoccupied under mysterious circumstances)
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
(P: This sentence seems to say that while the narrator isn't taken seriously, she never expected a husband to do so anyway)
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?
(648)
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.
(P: Both of the men dismiss the narrator's claims that there is actually something the matter with her, saying instead that the only problem is her "nervous depression" or "hysterical tendency")
So I take phosphates or phosphites - 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.
(P: The narrator is not free to do as she pleases, and is instructed to avoid activities she would prefer to take on; she expresses a sense of helplessness against the men's power over her when she asks "what is one to do," echoing her earlier question just above, "what can when do?")
So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
(P: This transition shows her attempts to remain obedient to the commands of the male authority figures--both physicians.)
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 coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but 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.
(S: The empty house device in horror fiction is reiterated here, and even in denying it she is bringing it up again and thus reminding us that even though it's "not haunted," she can't stop mentioning how it might be, or seems as though it could be, haunted. The draught could be the supernatural as well--or just another instance of a man dismissing her firsthand account of her experience as irrelevant compared to his own presumed "expertise")
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.
(M/P: The narrator's description of her emotional state might indicate her blossoming mental illness, or it could indicate her building frustration with the oppressive patriarchal conditions under which she is being forced to live.)
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.
(P: The narrator is not free to do as she pleases, and is instructed to avoid activities she would prefer to take on; she expresses a sense of helplessness against the men's power over her when she asks "what is one to do," echoing her earlier question just above, "what can when do?")
So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
(P: This transition shows her attempts to remain obedient to the commands of the male authority figures--both physicians.)
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 coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but 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.
(S: The empty house device in horror fiction is reiterated here, and even in denying it she is bringing it up again and thus reminding us that even though it's "not haunted," she can't stop mentioning how it might be, or seems as though it could be, haunted. The draught could be the supernatural as well--or just another instance of a man dismissing her firsthand account of her experience as irrelevant compared to his own presumed "expertise")
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.
(M/P: The narrator's description of her emotional state might indicate her blossoming mental illness, or it could indicate her building frustration with the oppressive patriarchal conditions under which she is being forced to live.)
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.
(P: His control over her is extreme to the point where he practically has a set schedule for her to live by).
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 playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
(P: A nursery = she is treated or seen as though she were a child).
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 a 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.
(649)
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.
(P: His control over her is extreme to the point where he practically has a set schedule for her to live by).
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 playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
(P: A nursery = she is treated or seen as though she were a child).
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 a 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.
(649)
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering 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.
(S/M: Note the way her description could be seen as indicating either something eerie about the paper itself, or something eerie about her perception of the paper)
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.
(P: She has to hide her writing from her husband, who doesn't approve)
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.
(She says she is lacking strength, but has been forced to get rest and do very little, showing that she finds the rest itself tiring, or perhaps she has internalized the view of herself as an ill person in need of compulsory rest, even though she disputes the treatment, she might think the diagnosis is more or less accurate. )
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.
(P: The contrast in the two attitudes here is notable. Recall that John is a physician, and a man not prone to indulging in supernatural speculations. He seems to be a thoroughly empirically-minded person. The narrator, unfortunately, is suffering from something he cannot empirically verify without accepting her own testimony of her emotional and mental state...and yet he does not accept it. He instead insists that there is no cause for her suffering, and therefore there is no effect. But that isn't how these kinds of illnesses work--the effect is something only the narrator would know, and "the cause "may never be singled out and identified)
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.
(She feels as though she is neglecting her duties as a wife, and that kind of guilty thinking is only going to lead to more suffering and guilt)
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.
(Look how her role is being occupied by a surrogate while she is recovering--this is the first mention of the baby, and indicates to us that she is perhaps suffering from postpartum depression.)
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-paper!
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.
(S/M: Note the way her description could be seen as indicating either something eerie about the paper itself, or something eerie about her perception of the paper)
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.
(P: She has to hide her writing from her husband, who doesn't approve)
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.
(She says she is lacking strength, but has been forced to get rest and do very little, showing that she finds the rest itself tiring, or perhaps she has internalized the view of herself as an ill person in need of compulsory rest, even though she disputes the treatment, she might think the diagnosis is more or less accurate. )
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.
(P: The contrast in the two attitudes here is notable. Recall that John is a physician, and a man not prone to indulging in supernatural speculations. He seems to be a thoroughly empirically-minded person. The narrator, unfortunately, is suffering from something he cannot empirically verify without accepting her own testimony of her emotional and mental state...and yet he does not accept it. He instead insists that there is no cause for her suffering, and therefore there is no effect. But that isn't how these kinds of illnesses work--the effect is something only the narrator would know, and "the cause "may never be singled out and identified)
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.
(She feels as though she is neglecting her duties as a wife, and that kind of guilty thinking is only going to lead to more suffering and guilt)
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.
(Look how her role is being occupied by a surrogate while she is recovering--this is the first mention of the baby, and indicates to us that she is perhaps suffering from postpartum depression.)
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-paper!
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 wall-paper 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 to the cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
(M/P: Both John's tone and the substance of his response indicate a dismissive, patriarchal attitude towards the narrator. When she says the treatment isn't working, he simply says she is wrong, and speaks to her as though he were correcting a child.
This would be like you saying you have a headache, so somebody gives you ibuprofen. A little while later, you mention that you still have a headache, and so the other person responds "No you don't! You just think you do, but you really know you don't!"
The narrator seems to want to say something about John's dismissive attitude when she contrasts his attitude with her own sense of what is wrong with her, but she is still being constrained by patriarchal patterns of behavior and social norms.)
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable 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 deepshaded 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.
(She says she "always [fancies]" seeing people on the paths below, but John discourages her from these imaginative exercises, showing his sense that he has the right, and the expertise, to tell her what to think of. Maybe the prohibition on imagining people out in the gardens foreshadows that she will have to imagine people someplace nobody will look--behind the wallpaper?)
He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-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.
He said that after the wall-paper 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 to the cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
(M/P: Both John's tone and the substance of his response indicate a dismissive, patriarchal attitude towards the narrator. When she says the treatment isn't working, he simply says she is wrong, and speaks to her as though he were correcting a child.
This would be like you saying you have a headache, so somebody gives you ibuprofen. A little while later, you mention that you still have a headache, and so the other person responds "No you don't! You just think you do, but you really know you don't!"
The narrator seems to want to say something about John's dismissive attitude when she contrasts his attitude with her own sense of what is wrong with her, but she is still being constrained by patriarchal patterns of behavior and social norms.)
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable 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 deepshaded 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.
(She says she "always [fancies]" seeing people on the paths below, but John discourages her from these imaginative exercises, showing his sense that he has the right, and the expertise, to tell her what to think of. Maybe the prohibition on imagining people out in the gardens foreshadows that she will have to imagine people someplace nobody will look--behind the wallpaper?)
He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-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 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.
(She wants to write but has no support)
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 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 lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.
(M/S: much of what follows in her descriptions tends to support either madness or supernatural events, but in either case the descriptions of the paper are fairly disturbing.)
I get positively angry with the imperti-
(650)
nence 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 breaths 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.
(M/S: The descriptions of the wallpaper begin to personify it by saying it has eyes, that it looks, that the looks have expression, etc. The phrase "And we all know how much expression" inanimate things have is somewhat perplexing--she seems to be assuming that all people share similar experiences with perceiving objects as sentient beings, which might be a bit of a stretch. This passage makes her seem somewhat unstable, or at least offers us evidence of her highly imaginative disposition by referring back to her childhood. It also reveals her current situation as one in which she is either experiencing similarly odd perceptions and imaginative flights, or else she is coming under the influence of supernatural forces that are at work in the house.)
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.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work.
(She wants to write but has no support)
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 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 lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.
(M/S: much of what follows in her descriptions tends to support either madness or supernatural events, but in either case the descriptions of the paper are fairly disturbing.)
I get positively angry with the imperti-
(650)
nence 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 breaths 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.
(M/S: The descriptions of the wallpaper begin to personify it by saying it has eyes, that it looks, that the looks have expression, etc. The phrase "And we all know how much expression" inanimate things have is somewhat perplexing--she seems to be assuming that all people share similar experiences with perceiving objects as sentient beings, which might be a bit of a stretch. This passage makes her seem somewhat unstable, or at least offers us evidence of her highly imaginative disposition by referring back to her childhood. It also reveals her current situation as one in which she is either experiencing similarly odd perceptions and imaginative flights, or else she is coming under the influence of supernatural forces that are at work in the house.)
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 wall-paper, 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.
(Later on in the story, you may find yourself wondering how much of the damage was here all along, and how much was her doing.)
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 and 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.
(Jennie, John's sister, serves as a foil to the narrator--while our narrator is unable to do her domestic duties as a wife, Jennie is not only able, but perfectly happy to do all of this. She also "hopes for no better profession," a statement which implies indirectly that our narrator's real preference is to do work, and not only be a housewife and mother.)
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 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 skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.
(More foreshadowing of the woman behind the pattern...this "formless sort of figure" is described and fleshed out in more detail over the course of the text, until in the end the narrator becomes her.)
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.
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.
(Later on in the story, you may find yourself wondering how much of the damage was here all along, and how much was her doing.)
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 and 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.
(Jennie, John's sister, serves as a foil to the narrator--while our narrator is unable to do her domestic duties as a wife, Jennie is not only able, but perfectly happy to do all of this. She also "hopes for no better profession," a statement which implies indirectly that our narrator's real preference is to do work, and not only be a housewife and mother.)
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 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 skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.
(More foreshadowing of the woman behind the pattern...this "formless sort of figure" is described and fleshed out in more detail over the course of the text, until in the end the narrator becomes her.)
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!
(P: She is not performing her domestic duties, and she is being threatened with even more intensive treatment. Weir Mitchell is actually the name of the physician who treated the author, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and that treatment is what inspired her to write this story--as a protest against it!)
Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.
I don't feel as if it was worth while 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.
(M: She is pretty clearly indicating that she has been sinking into a depressed state now.)
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.
(M: She is alone, which is something she mentioned very early on as a factor that she thinks might make her worse off rather than better--she wanted to see her cousins, Henry and Julia, for instance.)
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.
(She finds her obsession growing...the descriptions of the paper and the patterns she sees in it, or beyond it, will continue to become more elaborate and confusing as we go, so hang in there!)
(651)
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.
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!
(P: She is not performing her domestic duties, and she is being threatened with even more intensive treatment. Weir Mitchell is actually the name of the physician who treated the author, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and that treatment is what inspired her to write this story--as a protest against it!)
Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.
I don't feel as if it was worth while 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.
(M: She is pretty clearly indicating that she has been sinking into a depressed state now.)
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.
(M: She is alone, which is something she mentioned very early on as a factor that she thinks might make her worse off rather than better--she wanted to see her cousins, Henry and Julia, for instance.)
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.
(She finds her obsession growing...the descriptions of the paper and the patterns she sees in it, or beyond it, will continue to become more elaborate and confusing as we go, so hang in there!)
(651)
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.
(She is explaining that although she is familiar with design enough to know how to analyze a visual piece of decoration like wallpaper for the "rules" governing its pattern, she finds no discernible pattern in this one. Specifically, I'd like to point out that this passage seems to imply that there is no "center" or "logic" or "rhyme or reason" to it. It is chaotic and non-repeating. It only ever repeats when a new piece of the paper begins--there is no repetition within a single uncut piece of the stuff. Think of patterns of discrimination or social norms and expectations--these are patterns that don't really have any discernible "sense" that guides them in a way that we could see and pick up on and say it makes sense to us. Instead, they are just perpetuated--they cycle through again and again but there's never really a good "reason" for it.)
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 language here seems to hint at the supernatural or madness depending on your preference--I prefer both, but that's my prerogative, what's yours?)
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 center and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.
(Again she invokes principles of design, and this time indicates that she senses something like a center after all--some place where things emanate from, some origin that gives rise to the rest of the sprawling pattern. I really want to read that as a hint, to paraphrase Polonius from Hamlet, "Though this [is] madness, there's method in it.")
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.
(Notice the clipped sentences--short, repeating "I don't know/want/feel...")
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!
(Again see how her perspective is being voluntarily marginalized while she imagines what John would think. And yet she is now acknowledging that she "must say what [she] feels and thinks in some way.")
But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.
(Yet the fact that she has to struggle and be secretive just to get relief is making it harder for her to alleviate her suffering.)
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 wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.
(She is explaining that although she is familiar with design enough to know how to analyze a visual piece of decoration like wallpaper for the "rules" governing its pattern, she finds no discernible pattern in this one. Specifically, I'd like to point out that this passage seems to imply that there is no "center" or "logic" or "rhyme or reason" to it. It is chaotic and non-repeating. It only ever repeats when a new piece of the paper begins--there is no repetition within a single uncut piece of the stuff. Think of patterns of discrimination or social norms and expectations--these are patterns that don't really have any discernible "sense" that guides them in a way that we could see and pick up on and say it makes sense to us. Instead, they are just perpetuated--they cycle through again and again but there's never really a good "reason" for it.)
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 language here seems to hint at the supernatural or madness depending on your preference--I prefer both, but that's my prerogative, what's yours?)
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 center and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.
(Again she invokes principles of design, and this time indicates that she senses something like a center after all--some place where things emanate from, some origin that gives rise to the rest of the sprawling pattern. I really want to read that as a hint, to paraphrase Polonius from Hamlet, "Though this [is] madness, there's method in it.")
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.
(Notice the clipped sentences--short, repeating "I don't know/want/feel...")
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!
(Again see how her perspective is being voluntarily marginalized while she imagines what John would think. And yet she is now acknowledging that she "must say what [she] feels and thinks in some way.")
But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.
(Yet the fact that she has to struggle and be secretive just to get relief is making it harder for her to alleviate her suffering.)
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 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.
(This is another scene in which John's unwillingness to acknowledge the legitimacy of his wife's own claims about her own well-being is tragic and infuriating. She tries to speak up but finds herself literally unable to make her case without breaking down.)
(652)
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 keeps treating her like a child; she views herself as weak or ill)
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.
(He has placed her in a situation where she cannot do anything but use her imagination, and yet she is being told not to use her imagination under any circumstances)
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 get clearer every day.
It is always the same shape, only very numerous.
(This is another scene in which John's unwillingness to acknowledge the legitimacy of his wife's own claims about her own well-being is tragic and infuriating. She tries to speak up but finds herself literally unable to make her case without breaking down.)
(652)
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 keeps treating her like a child; she views herself as weak or ill)
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.
(He has placed her in a situation where she cannot do anything but use her imagination, and yet she is being told not to use her imagination under any circumstances)
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 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.
(A lot of things going on--the woman behind the paper is literally taking shape here, while the controlling husband is still being portrayed lovingly, she is beginning to push back, as she "tried [to talk to him] 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 wall-paper 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.
(M/P: She is sneaking around to investigate her hallucinations--or her perceptions of supernatural activity, whichever we take it to be...the reason she feels she has to be sly about it is because she doesn't want John to find out, displaying her sense that it is more important to maintain the impression of obedience or obligation to him than to be honest and do what she needs to do.)
"What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that - you'll get cold."
(Speaking to her like a child again...)
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."
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.
(A lot of things going on--the woman behind the paper is literally taking shape here, while the controlling husband is still being portrayed lovingly, she is beginning to push back, as she "tried [to talk to him] 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 wall-paper 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.
(M/P: She is sneaking around to investigate her hallucinations--or her perceptions of supernatural activity, whichever we take it to be...the reason she feels she has to be sly about it is because she doesn't want John to find out, displaying her sense that it is more important to maintain the impression of obedience or obligation to him than to be honest and do what she needs to do.)
"What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that - you'll get cold."
(Speaking to her like a child again...)
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!"
(P: He still speaks to her like a child.)
"And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.
"Why, how can 1, 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?"
(The way he trivializes her perspective on her own illness is incredible--this is certainly an instance of patriarchal thinking that is doing her real harm.)
(653)
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.
"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!"
(P: He still speaks to her like a child.)
"And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.
"Why, how can 1, 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?"
(The way he trivializes her perspective on her own illness is incredible--this is certainly an instance of patriarchal thinking that is doing her real harm.)
(653)
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.
(Her descriptions of the paper here still seem like indications of her madness, although the line between madness and the supernatural is evasive in this story.)
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.
(P/S/M: The woman, whether a ghostly figure or a figment of a madwoman's imagination, is being described in a way that makes us see her as "trapped" or "imprisoned" behind a pattern. Who else was trapped in a two-dimensional plane by the controls imposed on her by the world? We could refer back to the Duchess to bring in such an example.)
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.
(Who else is subdued and quiet by day? Who else is kept still by a "pattern"?)
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!
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.
(Her descriptions of the paper here still seem like indications of her madness, although the line between madness and the supernatural is evasive in this story.)
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.
(P/S/M: The woman, whether a ghostly figure or a figment of a madwoman's imagination, is being described in a way that makes us see her as "trapped" or "imprisoned" behind a pattern. Who else was trapped in a two-dimensional plane by the controls imposed on her by the world? We could refer back to the Duchess to bring in such an example.)
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.
(Who else is subdued and quiet by day? Who else is kept still by a "pattern"?)
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!
(She is suspicious of them and hesitant to trust them or allow them to watch her too closely. Rather than take note of the fact, she seems oblivious, even blaming the paper. IF the paper is symbolic for something else, like patterns of patriarchal repression, then this passage might bear even more significantly on the critical interpretation of the story.)
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!
(THIS IS IMPORTANT! Read the ending when she talks about the spot on the wall that fits her shoulder perfectly! What are some possible interpretations of this puzzling detail?)
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!
(This certainly seems like madness to me!)
* * * *
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.
(M/P: She is hiding her true feelings from her husband, though he didn't seem to take them seriously enough earlier on. She seems to be developing a sense of caution around him beyond her previous habit of restraining herself as a courtest--now it seems almost deceptive, a way of protecting herself from his further interventions)
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.
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!
(She is suspicious of them and hesitant to trust them or allow them to watch her too closely. Rather than take note of the fact, she seems oblivious, even blaming the paper. IF the paper is symbolic for something else, like patterns of patriarchal repression, then this passage might bear even more significantly on the critical interpretation of the story.)
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!
(THIS IS IMPORTANT! Read the ending when she talks about the spot on the wall that fits her shoulder perfectly! What are some possible interpretations of this puzzling detail?)
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!
(This certainly seems like madness to me!)
* * * *
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.
(M/P: She is hiding her true feelings from her husband, though he didn't seem to take them seriously enough earlier on. She seems to be developing a sense of caution around him beyond her previous habit of restraining herself as a courtest--now it seems almost deceptive, a way of protecting herself from his further interventions)
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
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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.
(This hints at madness and/or the supernatural, but in any case, it shows that whichever one of these is impacting her, the situation is worsening.)
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.
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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.
(This hints at madness and/or the supernatural, but in any case, it shows that whichever one of these is impacting her, the situation is worsening.)
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.
(synesthesia--when senses cross over/mix; also note how she admits that she had considered burning the house down to get to the smell--does that sound a little crazy to you?)
There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round 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 !
(IMPORTANT PASSAGE, this will be relevant to the conclusion of the story. The smooch-marks, the color coming off on the clothing of the narrator and her husband...these can pay off pretty extravagantly if you put in the time to consider them closely.)
* * * *
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!
(synesthesia--when senses cross over/mix; also note how she admits that she had considered burning the house down to get to the smell--does that sound a little crazy to you?)
There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round 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 !
(IMPORTANT PASSAGE, this will be relevant to the conclusion of the story. The smooch-marks, the color coming off on the clothing of the narrator and her husband...these can pay off pretty extravagantly if you put in the time to consider them closely.)
* * * *
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.
(The way her imaginative suggestions of another pattern beneath the surface pattern has morphed into a human figure, then a women, and now a woman who sometimes comes out--all this demonstrates the progression of her madness, or the increased supernatural activity in the house over the course of the story. Also, the statement "most women do not creep by daylight" is exceedingly strange.)
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.
(M: The idea that she could see a single person in multiple places at once violates everything we know from experience about the way the world works. So she is either speaking metaphorically or else she simply comes across as mad. But what caused her madness?)
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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.
(What is the narrator saying here? Who is she trusting? Isn't she simply writing this in a notebook? Why is she being evasive, and why drop the hint in the first place then?)
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.
It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.
(The way her imaginative suggestions of another pattern beneath the surface pattern has morphed into a human figure, then a women, and now a woman who sometimes comes out--all this demonstrates the progression of her madness, or the increased supernatural activity in the house over the course of the story. Also, the statement "most women do not creep by daylight" is exceedingly strange.)
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.
(M: The idea that she could see a single person in multiple places at once violates everything we know from experience about the way the world works. So she is either speaking metaphorically or else she simply comes across as mad. But what caused her madness?)
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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.
(What is the narrator saying here? Who is she trusting? Isn't she simply writing this in a notebook? Why is she being evasive, and why drop the hint in the first place then?)
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!
(P: While they monitor her, she is also watching them. Her description of John contrasts significantly with her earlier faith in his good intentions and trustworthiness as an expert (a physician), which shows that she has changed somehow.)
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 to stay in town over night, 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 to-day!
(The notion of not being alone because of the women in the paper is creepy enough, but the way she personifies the paper when she says it "laughed at [her]" is also chilling. Why would the pattern laugh? Is it a haunting that knows she is doomed? Or is it patriarchy knowing the only escape is through madness and the exclusion it brings?)
We go away to-morrow, 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.
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!
(P: While they monitor her, she is also watching them. Her description of John contrasts significantly with her earlier faith in his good intentions and trustworthiness as an expert (a physician), which shows that she has changed somehow.)
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 to stay in town over night, 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 to-day!
(The notion of not being alone because of the women in the paper is creepy enough, but the way she personifies the paper when she says it "laughed at [her]" is also chilling. Why would the pattern laugh? Is it a haunting that knows she is doomed? Or is it patriarchy knowing the only escape is through madness and the exclusion it brings?)
We go away to-morrow, 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!
(M/S: This veiled threat of violence seems remarkably out of character. This could be because she is not herself due to supernatural or patriarchal influences--in the end, can they be thought of as a kind of combined symbol?)
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 to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.
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.
(Again, the damage done to the room should make us wonder where it came from, and whether her claims are totally accurate)
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!
(M/S: She seems to be contemplating the act of capturing this figure from the wallpaper, but who is it in the wallpaper anyway?)
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.
But I am here, and no person touches this paper but Me - not alive!
(M/S: This veiled threat of violence seems remarkably out of character. This could be because she is not herself due to supernatural or patriarchal influences--in the end, can they be thought of as a kind of combined symbol?)
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 to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.
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.
(Again, the damage done to the room should make us wonder where it came from, and whether her claims are totally accurate)
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!
(M/S: She seems to be contemplating the act of capturing this figure from the wallpaper, but who is it in the wallpaper anyway?)
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
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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 wall-paper 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.
(A lot is going on in the above passage. Her sentences are short, clipped, and indicative of an unstable person. She seems quite unhinged, and has seemed to settle on the notion that there are many women out there, whereas at other times she seemed to think it may have only been one. She seems to imply she is one of the women who has escaped from the paper, and she has no intention of going back. She also mentions the smooch on the wall that fits her shoulder, and this is interesting because she mentions it before very early on, indicating that either her sense of time is out of synch, or the smooches (marks) from the pattern have been leaving an imprint on her for a while. Recall how Jennie complained that the yellow color was coming off the wall and leaving marks on both Jane and John's clothes. Has she been crawling around the room the whole time? But then why are John's clothes marked as well? Perhaps it is a metaphor for the "markings" of a patriarchal society--the imprint is left on all, not just those who have been most severely wronged. I am not sure in any case how to read it, and I merely put it forth here for your consideration).
Why there's John at the door!
It is no use, young man, you can't open it!
(Notice here how her tone has shifted; she used to seem hesitant to even speak up for herself, now she has openly defied him by setting this confrontation in motion. Her response "it is no use, young man, you can't open it!" seems to indicate that she no longer feels as though she must submit to him; whereas John used to call her childish names that infantilize her, she now refers to him as a "young man," perhaps indicating a newfound sense of empowerment.)
How he does call and pound!
Now he's crying for an axe.
I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the
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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 wall-paper 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.
(A lot is going on in the above passage. Her sentences are short, clipped, and indicative of an unstable person. She seems quite unhinged, and has seemed to settle on the notion that there are many women out there, whereas at other times she seemed to think it may have only been one. She seems to imply she is one of the women who has escaped from the paper, and she has no intention of going back. She also mentions the smooch on the wall that fits her shoulder, and this is interesting because she mentions it before very early on, indicating that either her sense of time is out of synch, or the smooches (marks) from the pattern have been leaving an imprint on her for a while. Recall how Jennie complained that the yellow color was coming off the wall and leaving marks on both Jane and John's clothes. Has she been crawling around the room the whole time? But then why are John's clothes marked as well? Perhaps it is a metaphor for the "markings" of a patriarchal society--the imprint is left on all, not just those who have been most severely wronged. I am not sure in any case how to read it, and I merely put it forth here for your consideration).
Why there's John at the door!
It is no use, young man, you can't open it!
(Notice here how her tone has shifted; she used to seem hesitant to even speak up for herself, now she has openly defied him by setting this confrontation in motion. Her response "it is no use, young man, you can't open it!" seems to indicate that she no longer feels as though she must submit to him; whereas John used to call her childish names that infantilize her, she now refers to him as a "young man," perhaps indicating a newfound sense of empowerment.)
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!"
(S/P/M: This could be possession, or it could be a psychotic break with reality, but in any case, she indicates that she was a woman behind the wallpaper in some sense, and that she is now free and doesn't intend to return. This is also the first place we learn the narrator's name--Jane. The sister is Jennie; most people miss this detail, but it could be significant. The first time we learn her name, her "identity" in a proper sense, is when she has become someone "other" than herself.)
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!
(P: She is now above him, literally crawling over him, but since he has fainted this places her over him physically. Whereas early on she was depicted as weak and he was described as strong in contrast, she is now crazed or somehow "other" than her self, but at least she is "awake")
"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!"
(S/P/M: This could be possession, or it could be a psychotic break with reality, but in any case, she indicates that she was a woman behind the wallpaper in some sense, and that she is now free and doesn't intend to return. This is also the first place we learn the narrator's name--Jane. The sister is Jennie; most people miss this detail, but it could be significant. The first time we learn her name, her "identity" in a proper sense, is when she has become someone "other" than herself.)
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!
(P: She is now above him, literally crawling over him, but since he has fainted this places her over him physically. Whereas early on she was depicted as weak and he was described as strong in contrast, she is now crazed or somehow "other" than her self, but at least she is "awake")
Vocabulary 1 “Rime of the Ancient
Mariner”
Quiz on December 9
1. kin (noun) - one’s family and
relations
2. spectre-bark (noun) - ghost ship
3. agape (adj) - agog, wide open,
especially with surprise or wonder
4. kirk (noun) - church (term most
often used in Scotland)
5. aver (verb) - to state or assert
to be the case
6. furrow (noun) - long narrow trench
made in the ground or a rut or groove
7. shroud (noun) - length of cloth to
wrap a dead person; a thing that envelops
8. gossamer (noun) - a fine, filmy
substance consisting of cobwebs, something light, delicate
9. tyrannous (adj) - unjustly severe
10. prow (noun) - the portion of a
ship’s bow above water
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