The Yellow Wallpaper

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

It is very seldom that ordinary people like John and I can stay in houses in the country for the summer. A mansion, I would say a haunted house — but that would be too much!

Still, I am proud there is something odd about it. Or else, why should it be rented so cheaply? And why has it been so long without a tenant?

John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage. John is extremely practical. He has no patience with faith, a horror of superstition, and he laughs openly at any talk of things that cannot be seen or recorded in numbers. John is a doctor, and perhaps — (I would not say it to anyone, of course, but this is dead paper) — perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can I do? If a doctor with an excellent reputation and my own husband tells friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with me but a temporary depression, what can I do? My brother is also a doctor, and also has an excellent reputation and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites — whichever it is – and journeys and air and exercise and am forbidden to 'work' until I am well again.

Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that enjoyable work, with excitement and change, would do me good. But what can I do? I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me — having to be so secretive about it, or else be told off. I sometimes imagine that my condition might improve, if I had more company and stimulus — but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition and I agree it always makes me feel bad.

So I will leave it alone and talk about the house. The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, three miles from the village. It makes me think of old English places that you read about, because there are walls and gates that lock and lots of little houses for the gardeners and people. There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden — large and shady and with long grassy walks.

There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs. Anyhow, the place has been empty for years. There is something strange about the house — I can feel it. I even said so to John one moonlit 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 like that, it's because I'm not controlling myself; so I try to control myself — in front of him, at least, and that makes me very tired.

I don't like our room at all. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the veranda and had roses all over the window! But John would not hear of it. He said there was only one window and not room for two beds. He is very careful and loving and never lets me move without him. I have a schedule for each hour of the day. He takes away all my worries, and so I feel deeply ungrateful not to value it more. He said we came here only for me, that I was to have rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear and your food on your appetite; but air you can breathe all the time." So we took the nursery at the top of the house. It is a big, airy room with windows that look in every direction, and so much air and sunshine. It was a nursery first, I think, for the windows are barred for little children.

The paint and paper on the walls look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off — the paper — in great areas all around the top of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and on the other side of the room low down. I never saw worse paper in my life. One of those flambouyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye when you follow it, clear enough to irritate and encourage you to study it, and when you follow the curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide. The colour is revolting; an unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly mustard in others. No wonder the children hated it! I would hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.

*****

Here comes John, and I must put this away — he hates me to 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 revolting nursery, and there is nothing to prevent my writing as much as I please, except 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 very depressing. John does not know how much I suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer and that satisfies him.

Of course it is only nervousness. It does worry me that I can't do my duty in any way! I meant to be such a help to John, such a real comfort, and here I am a burden already! Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do even a little — 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 nervous. I suppose John was never nervous in his life.

He laughs at me about this wallpaper! At first he meant to replace it, but afterwards he said that I was letting it upset me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give in to these ideas. He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy bed and then the barred windows and then that gate at the top of the stairs, and so on.

"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't want to decorate the house just for three months."

"Then do let's go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there."

Then he took me in his arms and called me a little darling, and said he would go down to the cellar, if I wished, and have it painted white as well. But he is right about the beds and windows and things. It is an airy and comfortable room, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable for no good reason. I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, except that horrid paper. Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded walks, the old-fashioned flowers and bushes and trees. Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay.

There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always imagine I see people walking on these paths, but John has warned me not to daydream. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to hallucinations, and that I ought to use my will power and good sense. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would reduce the pressure of ideas and relax me. But I find I get pretty tired when I try. It is so discouraging not to have any advice 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'd rather put fireworks in my bed than invite those stimulating people 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 bad influence it had!

There is a spot, repeated over and over again, where the pattern looks like a broken neck and two eyes stare at you upside down. I get positively angry with it. Those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two sheets of wallpaper do not 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! 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.

And there was one chair in my childhood bedroom that always seemed like a strong friend. I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always jump in that chair and be safe. The furniture in this room now does not match, however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a bedroom, they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such destruction as the children have made here. The wallpaper, as I said before, is torn off in spots — the children must have had perseverance as well as hatred. Then the floor is scratched and this heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if it has been through the wars. But I don't mind it a bit — only the paper.

There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing. She is an enthusiastic housekeeper and hopes for no better profession. I truly believe she thinks it's 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 looks out on the road, a lovely shaded road and one that just looks off over the country. Lovely country, too, full of great trees and 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 in the right place, I can see a strange, shapeless figure that seems to hide behind that silly front design.

There's sister on the stairs!

*****

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 few people, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children here for a week. Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now. But it made me tired all the same. John says if I don't get better faster he will send me to Dr. Mitchell in the autumn. 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!

I cry about 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 lot just now. John is in town very often with serious cases and Jennie is good and leaves me alone when I want her to. So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely path, sit under the roses and lie down up here a lot.

I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper. It stays in my mind! I lie here on this great immovable bed — it is fixed to the floor — and follow that pattern about for hours. It is as good as gymnastics. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I decide for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion. I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the direction of the pattern. They have used a horizontal pattern as well as a vertical one and that adds to the confusion. There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the lights fade and the low sun shines directly on it, the never-ending curves seem to move around a centre and then rush off. 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! But the effort is getting to be greater than the comfort. Half the time now I am lazy and lie down ever so much. John says I mustn't lose my strength and has me take medicines and things.

Dear John! He loves me so very much and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a 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 a very good impression, 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 took me 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 ideas run away with me.

There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and doesn't have to stay in this nursery with the horrid wallpaper. If we had not used the room, the child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn't have a child of mine, a sensitive little thing, live in such a room. 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. 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. And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a bit. I wonder — I wish John would take me away from here!

It is so hard to talk with John about my case because he is so clever and because he loves me so much. But I tried last night. There was moonlight. The moon shines in just as the sun does. I hate to see it sometimes. It moves so slowly and always comes in by one window or another. John was asleep and I hated to wake him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that paper till I felt sick. 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 though it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not getting better 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 we can leave before then. The repairs are not done at home and I can't leave town just now. Of course if you were in 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 putting on weight and your colour is improving, your appetite is better, I feel really much easier about you."

"I don't weigh more," said I, "not even 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!"

"Aren't you lovely?" he said with a big hug, "You can be as sick as you please! But now let's go to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!"

"And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.

"Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we'll take a nice little trip for 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 look that I could not say another word.

"My darling," he said, "never for one moment let that idea enter your head! There's nothing so dangerous. It's a wrong and stupid idea. Can't you trust me as a doctor when I tell you?"

So of course I said no more about it, 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 that is a constant annoyance to a normal mind. The colour is revolting, unreliable and annoying, but the pattern is torture. You think you have understood it, but it turns back and you are lost. It is like a bad dream.

There is one strange thing about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself. It changes as the light changes. When the sun comes in through the east window, it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it. That is why I always watch it. By moonlight — the moon shines in all night — I wouldn't know it was the same paper. At night in any kind of light, candle light, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it changes into 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 behind it was, that dim sub-pattern, but now I am quite sure it is a woman. By daylight she is quiet. I believe it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet for hours.

I lie down ever so much now. John says it's good for me 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, because you see I don't sleep. That means I cheat him, because I don't tell him I'm awake. The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John.

He seems very strange sometimes and even Jennie has a look I can't explain. I have watched John when he didn't know I was looking and come into the room suddenly 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, what she was doing with the paper — she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry — she asked me why I should frighten her! Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow on all my clothes and John's, and she wished I'd be more careful! Didn't that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody will solve it except myself!

*****

Life is 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 quieter than I was. John is so pleased to see me improve! He laughed a little the other day and said I seemed to be recovering in spite of my wallpaper. I changed the subject with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wallpaper — 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 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 because it is so interesting to watch developments; but I sleep a lot in the daytime. In the daytime it is tiresome and worrying. There are new shades of yellow on it. I can't count them, though I have tried hard.

It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw — not beautiful ones like buttercups but 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 in the dining room, hiding in the hall, waiting for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go riding, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it — there is that smell! Such a peculiar odour, too! I have spent hours trying to analyse it, to find what it smelled like. It's not bad at first, but the subtlest odour I ever smelt. 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 colour of the paper! A yellow smell.

There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, long, straight. 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. From watching so much at night, when it changes, 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 creeps around fast, and her creeping shakes it all over. Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just holds the bars and shakes them hard. And she is trying to climb through all the time. But nobody could climb through that pattern — it strangles so.

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 in daylight. I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along and when someone comes she hides. I don't blame her. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping in daylight! I always lock the door when I creep in daylight. I can't do it at night, because I know John would suspect something at once. And John is so odd 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, even though I turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at a time. And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn! I have watched her sometimes way off in the country, creeping as fast as a cloud in a high wind. If only that top pattern could be taken off! I mean to try it, little by little.

I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell you this time! It is unwise 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 lot in the daytime. John knows I don't sleep very well at night, even though 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 am not surprised he behaves like that, 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 is to stay in town over night. Jennie wanted to sleep with me — the sly thing! But I told her I should rest better alone. That was clever, for really I wasn't alone at all! 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 pulled off metres of that paper. A long gap about as high as my head and half around the room. And then when the sun came and that terrible pattern began to laugh at me, I decided I would finish it today! We go away tomorrow 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 happily that I did it out of pure spite because I hated it. She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired. But I am here, and no-one touches this paper but me — not alive!

She tried to get me out of the room — it was so obvious! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I would 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 bed. We shall sleep downstairs tonight and take the boat home tomorrow. I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again. How those children did run about here!

But I must get to work. I have locked the door and thrown the key down onto the front path. I don't want to go out and I don't want anybody 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 and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner — but it hurt my teeth.

Then I pulled 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 eyes and curves just scream at me!

I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be excellent exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try. Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know that a step like that is wrong and might be misunderstood. 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 wallpaper, as I did?

I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when night comes, 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 on the floor and my shoulder just fits in that long tear around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.

Why there's John at the door! It's no use, young man, you can't open it! How loudly he calls! Now he's shouting for an axe. It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!

"John dear!" I said in the gentlest voice, "The key is down by the front steps, under a 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 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 by the door.

"What is the matter?" he shouted. "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 faint? But he did and right in my way, so that I had to creep over him every time!