The Yellow Wallpaper [1]
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 repelllent, 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 other 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
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 repelllent, 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 other 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