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1The Yellow Wallpaper By Charlotte Perkins Gilman It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure
2ancestral halls for the summer. A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the
3height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too much of fate! Still I will proudly declare that there is
4something queer about it. Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted? John laughs at
5me, of course, but one expects that in marriage. John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an
6intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in
7figures. John is a physician, and perhaps--(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a
8great relief to my mind)--perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see, he does not believe I am sick!
9And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is
10really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression--a slight hysterical tendency--what is one to do? My
11brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or
12phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work"
13until I am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with
14excitement 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
15exhaust me a good deal--having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition. I sometimes fancy that in my
16condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to
17think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad. So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
18The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It
19makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of
20separate little houses for the gardeners and people. There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden--large and
21shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them. There were
22greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now. There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and
23co-heirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years. That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid; but I don't care--there
24is something strange about the house--I can feel it. I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I
25felt was a draught, and shut the window. I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to be so
26sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition. But John says if I feel so I shall neglect proper self-control;
27so 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
28wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz
29hangings! but John would not hear of it. He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room
30for him if he took another. He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. I have a
31schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value
32it 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
33exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb
34all the time." So we took the nursery, at the top of the house. It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with
35windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I
36should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls. The paint and
37paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off--the paper--in great patches all around the head of my
38bed, 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
39in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the
40eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain
41curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in
42unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by
43the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the
44children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. There comes John, and I must put this
45away,--he hates to have me write a word. We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that
46first day. I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as
47much as I please, save lack of strength. John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious. I am
48glad my case is not serious! But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing. John does not know how much I really
49suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him. Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh
50on 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
51comparative burden already! Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able--to dress and
52entertain, and order things. It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby! And yet I cannot be with
53him, it makes me so nervous. I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper! At
54first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing
55was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies. He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would
56be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on. "You know
57the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate the house just for a three months'
58rental." "Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there." Then he took me in his arms and
59called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the
60bargain. But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things. It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one
61need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim. I'm really getting
62quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper. Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious
63deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees. Out of another I get a lovely view
64of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there
65from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to
66give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like
67mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the
68tendency. So I try.
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