“Upon the Burning of Our House”Anne Bradstreet

Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning of Our house, July 10th. 1666. Copied Out of a Loose Paper.

In silent night when rest I took,For sorrow near I did not look,I wakened was with thund’ring noiseAnd piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”Let no man know is my Desire.I, starting up, the light did spy,And to my God my heart did cryTo straighten me in my DistressAnd not to leave me succourless.Then, coming out, behold a spaceThe flame consume my dwelling place.And when I could no longer look,I blest His name that gave and took,That laid my goods now in the dust.Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.It was his own, it was not mine,Far be it that I should repine;He might of all justly bereftBut yet sufficient for us left.When by the ruins oft I pastMy sorrowing eyes aside did castAnd here and there the places spyWhere oft I sate and long did lie.

Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,There lay that store I counted best.My pleasant things in ashes lieAnd them behold no more shall I.Under thy roof no guest shall sit,Nor at thy Table eat a bit.No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be toldNor things recounted done of old.No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee,Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be.In silence ever shalt thou lie,Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,And did thy wealth on earth abide?Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?Raise up thy thoughts above the skyThat dunghill mists away may fly.Thou hast a house on high erectFrameed by that mighty Architect,With glory richly furnished,Stands permanent though this be fled.It‘s purchased and paid for tooBy Him who hath enough to do.A price so vast as is unknown,Yet by His gift is made thine own;There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.The world no longer let me love,My hope and treasure lies above.

THE GARDEN-PARTYKatherine Mansfield

AND after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee."Where do you want the marquee put, mother?""My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you

children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest."But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair

before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's so delicious to

have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she was not holding that piece of bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, "Oh–er–have you come–is it about the marquee?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her. "That's about it."

His smile was so easy, so friendly, that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the bread-and-

butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want to put it somewhere where

it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow me."Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite respectful

of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she did quite follow him."A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to be in one

corner.""H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He was pale.

He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. What was he thinking?"Only a very small band," said Laura gently.  Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much

if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted."Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. That'll do fine."Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were so

lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that–caring for the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't feel them. Not a bit, not an atom. . . . And now there came the chock-chock of wooden hammers. Someone whistled, someone sang out, "Are you right there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the–the–Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the house."Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across

the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.

"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing."

"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" gasped Laura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch meal–just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment–hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat back. "What, mother? Can't hear."

Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that sweet hat she

had on last Sunday.""Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One

o'clock. Bye-bye."Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath,

stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall."It's the florist, Miss Laura."It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots

of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies–canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems.

"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.

"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them."It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they lovely?" She

pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the man."

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray."Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please," said Mrs.

Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?""Oh, I do, mother."In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in

moving the piano."Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything out of the

room except the chairs, don't you think?""Quite."

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the carpet and–one moment, Hans–" Jose loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at once.

"Very good, Miss Jose."She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I'm

asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is Weary.'"Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee -ta! The piano burst out so passionately that Jose's face

changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.

This Life is Wee -ary,A Tear–a Sigh.A Love that Chan -ges,This Life is Wee -ary,A Tear–a Sigh.A Love that Chan -ges,And then . . . Good-bye!

But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile."Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.

This Life is Wee -ary,Hope comes to Die.A Dream–a Wa -kening.But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?""If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the sandwiches?""The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And the

children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes.

Sadie went."Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the smoking-room.

I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home tonight? And–and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember vividly–cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"

"Yes.""Egg and–" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks like mice. It

can't be mice, can it?""Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder."Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive."They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jose

there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying."I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous voice. "How

many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?""Fifteen, Miss Jose.""Well, cook, I congratulate you." Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife and smiled broadly."Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had seen

the man pass the window.That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their cream

puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home."Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook.Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose were

far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura."I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back. "They

look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.""Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma won't

know."Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made

one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.Something had happened."Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to

her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?""There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed.""A man killed! Where? How? When?"But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his nose."Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of course, she

knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man."Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They were

taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook, "He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however are we going to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be

so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," said Laura.

"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly.

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going straight up to tell mother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose."Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass door-knob."Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a colour?" And

Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat. "Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura."Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother."No, no!""Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off

the big hat and held it on her knees."But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful

story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

"But, dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally–and I can't understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes-we should still be having our party, shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.

"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked."Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before

Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up her hand-mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turned aside.This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done."You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that don't expect

sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan. . . .

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis-court.

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf."

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall.

"Laurie!""Hallo!" he was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he

suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely topping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the hired

waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to–where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

"Darling Laura, how well you look!""What a becoming hat, child!" "Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking."And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice?

The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals closed."Never a more delightful garden-party . . . " "The greatest success . . . " "Quite the

most . . . "Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the porch

till it was all over."All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the others,

Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.""Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another.

"I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened today?" he said."My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly ruined the

party. Laura insisted we should put it off.""Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it."It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap was married

too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say."An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was

very tactless of father. . . .Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes,

puffs, all un-eaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas."I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of

this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps

from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?"Of course! What's the matter with you today? An hour or two ago you were

insisting on us being sympathetic, and now–"Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother."Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the

arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arum lilies.""The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"–her mother

followed her out of the marquee–"don't on any account–""What mother?"No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run along."It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a

shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it was the

most successful party."Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in

shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer–if only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she was coming here.

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, "Walk

in, please, miss," and she was shut in the passage."No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this basket.

Mother sent–"The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Step this

way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her.She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There

was a woman sitting before the fire."Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young lady." She

turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse 'er, won't you?""Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I–I only want to

leave–"But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up, red,

with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, swollen

too, tried an oily smile.Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door

opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom where the dead man was lying."You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she brushed past

Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"–and now her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet–" 'e looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.There lay a young man, fast asleep–sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he was

far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy . . . happy . . . All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.

"Forgive my hat," she said.And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of the door,

down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met Laurie.He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?""Yes.""Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?""Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him."I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.Laura shook her head. She was.Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm, loving

voice. "Was it awful?""No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie–" She stopped, she

looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't life–" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.

The Story of An Hour (1894)Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw

beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold,

imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. 

The Jilting of Granny Weatherall (1930)Katherine Anne Porter

  She flicked her wrist neatly out of Doctor Harry’s pudgy careful fingers and pulled the sheet up to her chin. The brat ought to be in knee breeches. Doctoring around the country with spectacles on his nose! “Get along now. Take your schoolbooks and go. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Doctor Harry spread a warm paw like a cushion on her forehead where the forked green vein danced and made her eyelids twitch. “Now, now, be a good girl, and we’ll have you up in no time.” “That’s no way to speak to a woman nearly eighty years old just because she’s down. I’d have you respect your elders, young man.” “Well, Missy, excuse me.” Doctor Harry patted her cheek. “But I’ve got to warn you, haven’t I? You’re a marvel, but you must be careful or you’re going to be good and sorry.” “Don’t tell me what I’m going to be. I’m on my feet now, morally speaking. It’s Cornelia. I had to go to bed to get rid of her.” Her bones felt loose, and floated around in her skin, and Doctor Harry floated like a balloon around the foot of the bed. He floated and pulled down his waistcoat, and swung his glasses on a cord. “Well, stay where you are, it certainly can’t hurt you.” “Get along and doctor your sick,” said Granny Weatherall. “Leave a well woman alone. I’ll call for you when I want you…Where were you forty years ago when I pulled through milk-leg and double pneumonia? You weren’t even born. Don’t let Cornelia lead you on,” she shouted, because Doctor Harry appeared to float up to the ceiling and out. “I pay my own bills, and I don’t throw my money away on nonsense!” She meant to wave good-by, but it was too much trouble. Her eyes closed of themselves, it was like a dark curtain drawn around the bed. The pillow rose and floated under her, pleasant as a hammock in a light wind. She listened to the leaves rustling outside the window. No, somebody was swishing newspapers: no, Cornelia and Doctor Harry were whispering together. She leaped broad awake, thinking they whispered in her ear. “She was never like this, never like this!” “Well, what can we expect?” “Yes, eighty years old…” Well, and what if she was? She still had ears. It was like Cornelia to whisper around doors. She always kept things secret in such a public way. She was always being tactful and kind. Cornelia was dutiful; that was the trouble with her. Dutiful and good: “So good and dutiful,” said Granny, “that I’d like to spank her.” She saw herself spanking Cornelia and making a fine job of it. “What’d you say, mother?” Granny felt her face tying up in hard knots. “Can’t a body think, I’d like to know?” “I thought you might like something.” “I do. I want a lot of things. First off, go away and don’t whisper.” She lay and drowsed, hoping in her sleep that the children would keep out and let her rest a minute. It had been a long day. Not that she was tired. It was always pleasant to

snatch a minute now and then. There was always so much to be done, let me see: tomorrow. Tomorrow was far away and there was nothing to trouble about. Things were finished somehow when the time came; thank God there was always a little margin over for peace: then a person could spread out the plan of life and tuck in the edges orderly. It was good to have everything clean and folded away, with the hair brushes and tonic bottles sitting straight on the white, embroidered linen: the day started without fuss and the pantry shelves laid out with rows of jelly glasses and brown jugs and white stone-china jars with blue whirligigs and words painted on them: coffee, tea, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, allspice: and the bronze clock with the lion on top nicely dusted off. The dust that lion could collect in twenty-four hours! The box in the attic with all those letters tied up, well, she’d have to go through that tomorrow. All those letters – George’s letters and John’s letters and her letters to them both – lying around for the children to find afterwards made her uneasy. Yes, that would be tomorrow’s business. No use to let them know how silly she had been once. While she was rummaging around she found death in her mind and it felt clammy and unfamiliar. She had spent so much time preparing for death there was no need for bringing it up again. Let it take care of itself for now. When she was sixty she had felt very old, finished, and went around making farewell trips to see her children and grandchildren, with a secret in her mind: This was the very last of your mother, children! Then she made her will and came down with a long fever. That was all just a notion like a lot of other things, but it was lucky too, for she had once and for all got over the idea of dying for a long time. Now she couldn’t be worried. She hoped she had better sense now. Her father had lived to be one hundred and two years old and had drunk a noggin of strong hot toddy on his last birthday. He told the reporters it was his daily habit, and he owed his long life to that. He had made quite a scandal and was very pleased about it. She believed she’d just plague Cornelia a little. “Cornelia! Cornelia!” No footsteps, but a sudden hand on her cheek. “Bless you, where have you been?” “Here, Mother.” “Well, Cornelia, I want a noggin of hot toddy.” “Are you cold, darling?” “I’m chilly, Cornelia.” Lying in bed stops the circulation. I must have told you a thousand times.” Well, she could just hear Cornelia telling her husband that Mother was getting a little childish and they’d have to humor her. The thing that most annoyed her was that Cornelia thought she was deaf, dumb, and blind. Little hasty glances and tiny gestures tossed around here and over her head saying, “Don’t cross her, let her have her way, she’s eighty years old,” and she sitting there as if she lived in a thin glass cage. Sometimes granny almost made up her mind to pack up and move back to her own house where nobody could remind her every minute that she was old. Wait, wait, Cornelia, till your own children whisper behind your back! In her day she had kept a better house and had got more work done. She wasn’t too old yet for Lydia to be driving eighty miles for advice when one of the children jumped the track, and Jimmy still dropped in and talked things over: “Now, Mammy, you’ve a good business head, I want to know what you think of this?…” Old. Cornelia couldn’t change

the furniture around without asking . Little things, little things! They had been so sweet when they were little. Granny wished the old days were back again with the children young and everything to be done over. It had been a hard pull, but not too much for her. When she thought of all the food she had cooked, and all the clothes she had cut and sewed, and all the gardens she had made – well, the children showed it. There they were, made out of her, and they couldn’t get away from that. Sometimes she wanted to see John again and point to them and say, Well, I didn’t do so badly, did I? But that would have to wait. That was for tomorrow. She used to think of him as a man, but now all the children were older than their father, and he would be a child beside her if she saw him now. It seemed strange and there was something wrong in the idea. Why, he couldn’t possibly recognize her. She had fenced in a hundred acres once, digging the post holes herself and clamping the wires with just a negro boy to help. That changed a woman. John would be looking for a young woman with a peaked Spanish comb in her hair and the painted fan. Digging post holes changed a woman. Riding country roads in the winter when women had their babies was another thing: sitting up nights with sick horses and sick negroes and sick children and hardly ever losing one. John, I hardly ever lost one of them! John would see that in a minute, that would be something he could understand, she wouldn’t have to explain anything! It made her feel like rolling up her sleeves and putting the whole place to rights again. No matter if Cornelia was determined to be everywhere at once, there were a great many things left undone on this place. She would start tomorrow and do them. It was good to be strong enough for everything, even if all you made melted and changed and slipped under your hands, so that by the time you finished you almost forgot what you were working for. What was it I set out to do? She asked herself intently, but she could not remember. A fog rose over the valley, she saw it marching across the creek swallowing the trees and moving up the hill like an army of ghosts. Soon it would be at the near edge of the orchard, and then it was time to go in and light the lamps. Come in, children, don’t stay out in the night air. Lighting the lamps had been beautiful. The children huddled up to her and breathed like little calves waiting at the bars in the twilight. Their eyes followed the match and watched the flame rise and settle in a blue curve, then they moved away from her. The lamp was lit, they didn’t have to be scared and hang on to mother any more. Never, never, never more. God, for all my life, I thank Thee. Without Thee, my God, I could never have done it. Hail, Mary, full of grace. I want you to pick all the fruit this year and see nothing is wasted. There’s always someone who can use it. Don’t let good things rot for want of using. You waste life when you waste good food. Don’t let things get lost. It’s bitter to lose things. Now, don’t let me get to thinking, not when I’m tired and taking a little nap before supper…. The pillow rose about her shoulders and pressed against her heart and the memory was being squeezed out of it: oh, push down the pillow, somebody: it would smother her if she tried to hold it. Such a fresh breeze blowing and such a green day with no threats in it. But he had not come, just the same. What does a woman do when she has put on the white veil and set out the white cake for a man and he doesn’t come? She tried to remember. No, I swear he never harmed me but in that. He never harmed me but in that…and what if he did? There was the day, the day, but a whirl of dark smoke rose and covered it, crept up and over into the bright field where everything was planted so

carefully in orderly rows. That was hell, she knew hell when she saw it. For sixty years she had prayed against remembering him and against losing her soul in the deep pit of hell, and now the two things were mingled in one and the thought of him was a smoky cloud from hell that moved and crept in her head when she had just got rid of Doctor Harry and was trying to rest a minute. Wounded vanity, Ellen, said a sharp voice in the top of her mind. Don’t let your wounded vanity get the upper hand of you. Plenty of girls get jilted. You were kilted, weren’t you? Then stand up to it. Her eyelids wavered and let in streamers of blue-gray light like tissue paper over her eyes. She must get up and pull the shades down or she’d never sleep. She was in bed again and the shades were not down. How could that happen? Better turn over, hide from the light, sleeping in the light gave you nightmares. “Mother, how do you feel now?” and a stinging wetness on her forehead. But I don’t like having my face washed in cold water! Hapsy? George? Lydia? Jimmy? No, Cornelia and her features were swollen and full of little puddles. “They’re coming, darling, they’ll all be here soon.” Go wash your face, child, you look funny. Instead of obeying, Cornelia knelt down and put her head on the pillow. She seemed to be talking but there was no sound. “Well, are you tongue-tied? Whose birthday is it? Are you going to give a party?” Cornelia’s mouth moved urgently in strange shapes. “Don’t do that, you bother me, daughter.” “Oh no, Mother. Oh, no…”Nonsense. It was strange about children. They disputed your every word. “No what, Cornelia?” “Here’s Doctor Harry.” “I won’t see that boy again. He left just five minutes ago.” “That was this morning, Mother. It’s night now. Here’s the nurse.” “This is Doctor Harry, Mrs. Weatherall. I never saw you look so young and happy!” “Ah, I’ll never be young again – but I’d be happy if they’d let me lie in peace and get rested.” She thought she spoke up loudly, but no one answered. A warm weight on her forehead, a warm bracelet on her wrist, and a breeze went on whispering, trying to tell her something. A shuffle of leaves in the everlasting hand of God, He blew on them and they danced and rattled. “Mother, don’t mind, we’re going to give you a little hypodermic.” “Look here, daughter, how do ants get in this bed? I saw sugar ants yesterday.” Did you send for Hapsy too? It was Hapsy she really wanted. She had to go a long way back through a great many rooms to find Hapsy standing with a baby on her arm. She seemed to herself to be Hapsy also, and the baby on Hapsy’s arm was Hapsy and himself and herself, all at once, and there was no surprise in the meeting. Then Hapsy melted from within and turned flimsy as gray gauze and the baby was a gauzy shadow, and Hapsy came up close and said, “I thought you’d never come,” and looked at her very searchingly and said, “You haven’t changed a bit!” They leaned forward to kiss, when Cornelia began whispering from a long way off, “Oh, is there anything you want to tell me? Is there anything I can do for you?” Yes, she had changed her mind after sixty years and she would like to see George. I want you to find George. Find him and be sure to tell him I forgot him. I want him to

know I had my husband just the same and my children and my house like any other woman. A good house too and a good husband that I loved and fine children out of him. Better than I had hoped for even. Tell him I was given back everything he took away and more. Oh, no, oh, God, no, there was something else besides the house and the man and the children. Oh, surely they were not all? What was it? Something not given back… Her breath crowded down under her ribs and grew into a monstrous frightening shape with cutting edges; it bored up into her head, and the agony was unbelievable: Yes, John, get the Doctor now, no more talk, the time has come. When this one was born it should be the last. The last. It should have been born first, for it was the one she had truly wanted. Everything came in good time. Nothing left out, left over. She was strong, in three days she would be as well as ever. Better. A woman needed milk in her to have her full health. “Mother, do you hear me?” “I’ve been telling you – “ “Mother, Father Connolly’s here.” “I went to Holy Communion only last week. Tell him I’m not so sinful as all that.” “Father just wants to speak with you.” He could speak as much as he pleased. It was like him to drop in and inquire about her soul as if it were a teething baby, and then stay on for a cup of tea and a round of cards and gossip. He always had a funny story of some sort, usually about an Irishman who made his little mistakes and confessed them, and the point lay in some absurd thing he would blurt out in the confessional showing his struggles between native piety and original sin. Granny felt easy about her soul. Cornelia, where are your manners? Give Father Connolly a chair. She had her secret comfortable understanding with a few favorite saints who cleared a straight road to God for her. All as surely signed and sealed as the papers for the new forty acres. Forever…heirs and assigns forever. Since the day the wedding cake was not cut, but thrown out and wasted. The whole bottom of the world dropped out, and there she was blind and sweating with nothing under her feet and the walls falling away. His hand had caught her under the breast, she had not fallen, there was the freshly polished floor with the green rug on it, just as before. He had cursed like a sailor’s parrot and said, “I’ll kill him for you.” Don’t lay a hand on him, for my sake leave something to God. “Now, Ellen, you must believe what I tell you….” So there was nothing, nothing to worry about anymore, except sometimes in the night one of the children screamed in a nightmare, and they both hustled out and hunting for the matches and calling, “There, wait a minute, here we are!” John, get the doctor now, Hapsy’s time has come. But there was Hapsy standing by the bed in a white cap. “Cornelia, tell Hapsy to take off her cap. I can’t see her plain.” Her eyes opened very wide and the room stood out like a picture she had seen somewhere. Dark colors with the shadows rising towards the ceiling in long angles. The tall black dresser gleamed with nothing on it but John’s picture, enlarged from a little one, with John’s eyes very black when they should have been blue. You never saw him, so how do you know how he looked? But the man insisted the copy was perfect, it was very rich and handsome. For a picture, yes, but it’s not my husband. The table by the bed had a linen cover and a candle and a crucifix. The light was blue from Cornelia’s silk lampshades. No sort of light at all, just frippery. You had to live forty years with

kerosene lamps to appreciate honest electricity. She felt very strong and she saw Doctor Harry with a rosy nimbus around him. “You look like a saint, Doctor Harry, and I vow that’s as near as you’ll ever come to it.” “She’s saying something.” “I heard you Cornelia. What’s all this carrying on?” “Father Connolly’s saying – “ Cornelia’s voice staggered and jumped like a cart in a bad road. It rounded corners and turned back again and arrived nowhere. Granny stepped up in the cart very lightly and reached for the reins, but a man sat beside her and she knew him by his hands, driving the cart. She did not look in his face, for she knew without seeing, but looked instead down the road where the trees leaned over and bowed to each other and a thousand birds were singing a Mass. She felt like singing too, but she put her hand in the bosom of her dress and pulled out a rosary, and Father Connolly murmured Latin in a very solemn voice and tickled her feet. My God, will you stop that nonsense? I’m a married woman. What if he did run away and leave me to face the priest by myself? I found another a whole world better. I wouldn’t have exchanged my husband for anybody except St. Michael himself, and you may tell him that for me with a thank you in the bargain. Light flashed on her closed eyelids, and a deep roaring shook her. Cornelia, is that lightning? I hear thunder. There’s going to be a storm. Close all the windows. Call the children in… “Mother, here we are, all of us.” “Is that you Hapsy?” “Oh, no, I’m Lydia We drove as fast as we could.” Their faces drifted above her, drifted away. The rosary fell out of her hands and Lydia put it back. Jimmy tried to help, their hands fumbled together, and granny closed two fingers around Jimmy’s thumb. Beads wouldn’t do, it must be something alive. She was so amazed her thoughts ran round and round. So, my dear Lord, this is my death and I wasn’t even thinking about it. My children have come to see me die. But I can’t, it’s not time. Oh, I always hated surprises. I wanted to give Cornelia the amethyst set – Cornelia, you’re to have the amethyst set, but Hapsy’s to wear it when she wants, and, Doctor Harry, do shut up. Nobody sent for you. Oh, my dear Lord, do wait a minute. I meant to do something about the Forty Acres, Jimmy doesn’t need it and Lydia will later on, with that worthless husband of hers. I meant to finish the alter cloth and send six bottles of wine to Sister Borgia for her dyspepsia. I want to send six bottles of wine to Sister Borgia, Father Connolly, now don’t let me forget. Cornelia’s voice made short turns and tilted over and crashed. “Oh, mother, oh, mother, oh, mother….” “I’m not going, Cornelia. I’m taken by surprise. I can’t go.” You’ll see Hapsy again. What bothered her? “I thought you’d never come.” Granny made a long journey outward, looking for Hapsy. What if I don’t find her? What then? Her heart sank down and down, there was no bottom to death, she couldn’t come to the end of it. The blue light from Cornelia’s lampshade drew into a tiny point in the center of her brain, it flickered and winked like an eye, quietly it fluttered and dwindled. Granny laid curled down within herself, amazed and watchful, staring at the point of light that was herself; her body was now only a deeper mass of shadow in an endless darkness and this darkness would curl around the light and swallow it up. God, give a sign!

For a second time there was no sign. Again no bridegroom and the priest in the house. She could not remember any other sorrow because this grief wiped them all away. Oh, no, there’s nothing more cruel than this – I’ll never forgive it. She stretched herself with a deep breath and blew out the light.

The Yellow Wallpaper (1899)Charlotte Perkins Gilman

        It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.        A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too much of fate!        Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.        Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?        John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.        John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.        John is a physician, and perhaps--(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)--perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.        You see he does not believe I am sick!        And what can one do?        If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression--a slight hysterical tendency-- what is one to do?        My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.        So I take phosphates or phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.        Personally, I disagree with their ideas.        Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.        But what is one to do?        I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal--having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.        I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.        So I will let it alone and talk about the house.        The most beautiful place! It is quite alone standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.        There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden--large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.        There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.        There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.        That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care--there is something strange

about the house--I can feel it.        I even said so to John one moonlight evening but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the window.        I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.        But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself-- before him, at least, and that makes me very tired.        I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.        He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.        He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.        I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.        He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time. ' So we took the nursery at the top of the house.        It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.        The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off--the paper in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.        One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.        It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.        The color is 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.        No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.        There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to have me write a word.

----------        We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that first day.        I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.        John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.        I am glad my case is not serious!        But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.        John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer,

and that satisfies him.        Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!        I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!        Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,--to dress and entertain, and order things.        It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!        And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous.        I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this 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.        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. 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. 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.

        I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere There is one place where two 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.        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.        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.        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.        There's sister on the stairs!

----------        Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are all gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.        Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.        But it tired me all the same.        John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.        But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so!        Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.        I don't feel as if it was 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.        Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.        And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to.        So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here a good deal.        I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall-paper. Perhaps because of the wall-paper.        It dwells in my mind so!        I lie here on this great immovable bed--it is nailed down, I believe--and follow that pattern about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.        I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of.        It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.        Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes--a kind of "debased Romanesque" with delirium tremens--go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity.        But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.        The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction.        They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.        There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the crosslights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,--the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.        It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess.

----------        I don't know why I should write this.        I don't want to.        I don't feel able. And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and think in some way--it is such a relief!        But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.        Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.        John says I 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 .        It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose.        And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.        He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.        He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let any silly fancies run away with me.        There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the horrid wall-paper.        If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn't have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.        I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all, I can stand it so much easier than a baby, you see.        Of course I never mention it to them any more--I am too wise,--but I keep watch of it all the same.        There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.        Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.        It is always the same shape, only very numerous.        And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a bit. I wonder--I begin to think--I wish John would take me away from here!

----------        It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so.        But I tried it last night.        It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does.        I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another.        John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating 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.        "What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that--you'll get cold."        I thought it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I wished he would take me away.        "Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave before.        "The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were in any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better, I feel really much easier about you."        "I don't weigh a bit more," said 1, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away!"

        "Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!"        "And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.        "Why, how can 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?"        So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I wasn't, and lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.

----------        On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.        The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.        You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.        The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions--why, that is something like it.        That is, sometimes!        There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes as the light changes.        When the sun shoots in through the east window--I always watch for that first long, straight ray--it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.        That is why I watch it always.        By moonlight--the moon shines in all night when there is a moon--I wouldn't know it was the same paper.        At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be.        I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind, that dim sub-pattern, but now I am quite sure it is a woman.        By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.        I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.        Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.        It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don't sleep.        And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake--O no!

        The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John.        He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.        It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis,--that perhaps it is the paper!        I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times looking at the paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.        She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper--she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry-- asked me why I should frighten her so!        Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful!        Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody shall find it out but myself!

----------        Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.

John is so pleased to see me improve ! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be flourishing in spite of my wall-paper.        I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wall-paper--he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.        I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be enough.

----------        I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.        In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.        There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously.        It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw--not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.        But there is something else about that paper-- the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.        It creeps all over the house.        I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.        It gets into my hair.        Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it--there is that smell!        Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like.        It is not bad--at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I

ever met.        In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me.        It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house--to reach the smell.        But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell.        There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs 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!

----------        I really have discovered something at last.        Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.        The front pattern does move--and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!        Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.        Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard.        And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern--it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.        They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down, and makes their eyes white!        If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.

----------        I think that woman gets out in the daytime!        And I'll tell you why--privately--I've seen her!        I can see her out of every one of my windows!        It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.        I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines.        I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight!        I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would suspect something at once.        And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room! Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.        I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.        But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.        And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!        I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind.

----------        If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little.

        I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to trust people too much.        There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don't like the look in his eyes.        And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give.        She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.        John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet!        He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.        As if I couldn't see through him!        Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.        It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.

----------        Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John 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!        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 !        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.        I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.        I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.        I want to astonish him.        I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie her!

        But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!        This bed will not move!        I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner--but it hurt my teeth.        Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision!        I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.        Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued.        I don't like to look out of the windows even-- there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.        I wonder if they all come out of that 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.        Why there's John at the door!        It is no use, young man, you can't open it!        How he does call and pound!        Now he's crying for an axe.        It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!        "John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!"        That silenced him for a few moments.        Then he said--very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!"        "I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"        And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door.        "What is the matter?" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!"        I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.        "I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't put me back!"        Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!