*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YELLOW WALLPAPER ***

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.

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 believe that congenial work, with excitement and change,
would do me good.

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
co-heirs; 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
playground 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 repellant, 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.

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 wallpaper!

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 wallpaper 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 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 as airy and comfortable a 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 deep-shaded
arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private
wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that
runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in
these numerous 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
fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people
about now.

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 breadths
didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little
higher than the other.

I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all
know 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 wallpaper, 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 wallpaper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a
particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights,
and not clearly then.

But in the places where it isn’t faded, and where the sun is just so, I
can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to
sulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.

Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired
out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we
just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.

Of course I didn’t do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.

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 wallpaper. Perhaps
because of the wallpaper.

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 cross-lights 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.

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 wallpaper.

If we had not used it that blessed child would have! What a fortunate
escape! Why, I wouldn’t have a child of mine, an impressionable little
thing, live in such a room for worlds.

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.