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.

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 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 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 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 musn'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 though 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 I, "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 I, 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, candle light, 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 is 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!

Footnotes

  1. Gilman ends “The Yellow Wallpaper” on an ambiguous note. Readers can only guess what becomes of John and the narrator. Literary critics generally agree that if the story were to proceed further, the narrator would be sent to a mental hospital. Instead of receiving proper treatment, she would likely continue to live in confinement and isolation, her illness only becoming more and more aggravated.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  2. Some literary critics may claim that, even in her stupor, the narrator adheres to female Victorian ideals by calling out to her husband in the “gentlest voice.” However, other critics may argue that by defiantly tearing down the wallpaper and calling out to her husband in a gentle voice, she is actually mocking Victorian ideals and subverting how society should view women.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  3. Due to the narrative structure of the short story, readers cannot fully see the narrator’s behavior from an outside vantage point. Instead they glean information from within the narrator’s personal perspective. She frequently employs the words “to creep” and “to crawl,” allowing readers to imagine how the narrator anomalistically moves around the room.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  4. Even in her hallucination, the narrator cannot escape the Victorian ideals enforced on women. She briefly considers jumping out of the window but realizes that doing so would be an indecent act, incongruent with societal norms. Despite her best attempts to tear the wallpaper away in an act of defiance, she fails to fully relinquish herself from the patriarchal oppression so deeply ingrained in Victorian society.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  5. The word “derision” refers to the act of mocking or ridiculing. The narrator returns to the imagery she employed previously and states that these grotesque figures “shriek with derision”—a phrase which suggests that the wallpaper’s monsters laugh maniacally and torment her. The imagery of the phrase illustrates the sheer and utter terror the wallpaper induces in the narrator.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  6. The parallel structure and use of the pronouns “I” and “she” confuse and unite the narrator and her mirror image. As one performs one task, the other follows suit. Demonstrated through the use of the pronoun “we,” the two—or rather, one—peel off the wallpaper.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  7. Here, Gilman creates a symbolic moment in which the narrator’s mirror image shakes the bars of the window. The mirror image—whom readers should now recognize as the narrator herself—attempts to break free from her confinement in the nursery. She wishes to break free from this room, and on a larger thematic scale, the bonds of patriarchy and marriage.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  8. Although the narrator claims not to know, readers should recognize that the narrator is responsible for the “funny mark” on the lower portions of the wall. As she creeps around the room in her frenzied state, she forms a streak or “smooch” along the wall. The narrator states that she has become very dizzy—presumably from circling the room. The repetitive use of the word “round” demonstrates how frequently she has circled the room and how unhinged she has become.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  9. Through personification—using words like “hovering,” “skulking,” and “hiding”—the narrator demonstrates how the odor seems to linger all throughout the house. The narrator does not realize however that this odor is the smell of decay. The smell follows her because it emanates from her body.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  10. When readers think of the color yellow, they might picture “buttercups,” sunlight, or other bright, pleasant images. However, here Gilman subverts the meaning of yellow, instead associating it with sickness, decay, and death. The narrator does not explicitly delineate all the “bad yellow things,” but readers can likely imagine some of the grotesque things she might be envisioning.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  11. At the time of Gilman’s writing, the word “smooch” referred to a stain or smudge. As the narrator tears away and peels at the wall, the yellow stain from the wallpaper transfers onto her clothes. The narrator believes that Jennie is touching the wallpaper to get a closer look at it and fails to realize that Jennie is actually more concerned with her strange and obsessive behavior.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  12. Ironically employing scientific jargon, the narrator sublty mocks her husband’s superiority. Here, she turns his “wisdom” on its head, running her own scientific experiment and observing her husband’s strange behavior.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  13. The word “toadstool” is another word for poisonous mushroom. Here, the narrator asks readers to “imagine a toadstool in joints”—many mushrooms growing together to form a labyrinth of fungi. The simile likens the pattern on the wallpaper to the serpentine winding of a string of mushrooms.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  14. Through a combination of second-person narration, personification, and simile, the narrator conveys how the wallpaper tortures her. With the second-person point of view, readers can understand firsthand the sort of mental unhinging the narrator experiences at each glance. Through personification, readers can grasp the figurative violence the wallpaper inflicts on the narrator as it “slaps,” “knocks,” and “tramples” her. Finally, the last phrase—the simile that likens the wallpaper to a nightmare—demonstrates the anxiety and unease it causes her.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  15. The adjectives “stern” and “reproachful” mean harsh and disapproving, respectively. After the narrator’s second failed attempt to stand up for herself, John shoots her such a powerful look of disapproval that she immediately quiets down. This moment highlights the power John has over his wife to acquiesce and oppress her.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  16. In an effort to establish his credibility and superiority over his wife, John asserts that since he is a doctor, he knows better than she. Readers should note the irony as he states that the narrator is getting better when she is clearly only getting worse. The narrator tries to stand up for herself, but John patronizingly quiets her again, saying “Bless her little heart!”

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  17. Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, talking about mental illness—especially regarding women—was taboo in many cultures. At the time, postpartum depression was not recognized as a legitimate mental health issue. It was especially difficult to diagnose women who displayed affection for their babies but still exhibited symptoms of depression and exhaustion. Today, research has help shed light on this mental health condition and it is generally understood that such behavior is very common among women who suffer from postpartum depression.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  18. In another instance of infantilization, John coddles the narrator and lays her down to rest. Notice the irony as John asks the narrator to take care of herself, when in fact his very treatment of her—his prescriptions, his isolating her, and his complete oppression of her every choice—has caused her to descend into madness.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  19. The narrator finds herself in a bind. On the one hand, she feels guilty for indulging in writing, a practice her husband hasn’t prescribed; on the other, writing is the one activity that offers her a sense of autonomy and freedom of expression. Without the ability to write and to express herself in the face of the stifling oppression of her husband, she might easily lose her voice. Despite her fear of getting caught, the narrator continues to write, recognizing that this solitary practice is her only source of power.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  20. Although most of the short story is structured into a series of one- or two-sentence paragraphs, this sequence of sentences stands out specifically for its briefness. This sequence of curt sentences encapsulates the narrator’s state of mind. Her raving “fancies” have left her mind exhausted and her body depleted.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  21. “Grotesques” are depictions of mythical creatures, often used as architectural decorations. The grotesque-like caricatures in the wallpaper converge through a disordered interplay of horizontal, vertical, and diagonal lines—then suddenly disperse “in headlong plunges.” In the narrator’s mind, the images in the wallpaper become more and more turbulent, then suddenly disappear as maddeningly as they appeared.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  22. The word “frieze” is a term in classical architecture for the space between the architrave and the cornice, above the columns in the upper horizontal portions of a building. Along with the diagonal breadths, the horizontal breadths add to the mayhem of the wallpaper. In total, the narrator envisions the maddening interplay of the vertical “columns of fatuity,” the diagonal breaths “of wallowing seaweed,” and the horizontal breadths in the frieze.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  23. The word “fatuity” means foolishness and idiocy. To illustrate the chaotic nature of the breadths of the wallpaper, the narrator personifies them as waddling, or clumsily walking, up and down along the wall. They move in tremulous patterns and in “isolated columns of fatuity,” a phrase which suggests that the breadths move idiotically and illogically.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  24. The adjectives “fretful” and “querulous” mean restless and whining, respectively. As the story progresses, the narrator’s mental state deteriorates further. Her husband fails to provide her with accurate treatment and stifles her only creative outlet. As a result, she descends into madness, going so far as to imagine someone hiding behind the wallpaper.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  25. Here, the narrator begins to imagine seeing another person behind the wallpaper—someone she characterizes in grotesque language. In grotesque decorative art, human and natural forms transmute into ugly, distorted, and absurd shapes. As the narrator peers into the wallpaper, she sees a human whose image is grotesque, distorted, and malformed.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  26. The noun “impertinence” refers to the state of being rude, ill-mannered, or unrestrained by the bounds of good taste. By describing the wallpaper as something that is impertinent, the narrator suggests that it is offensive, jarring, and does not belong in this room.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  27. Through personification, Gilman writes that the wallpaper looked as if it were mocking her. One spot on the wallpaper takes on the appearance of a face, as if two eyes attached to a loosely tethered neck were staring her down. The wallpaper takes on increasingly more grotesque imagery, as these eyes appear to move and crawl along the wall.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  28. The short story brings up issues over the compatibility of imagination and realism. The narrator, a writer, often “fancies” the happenings of the world around her. John, in contrast, is a man of science and does not divulge in “story-making.” There is a clear dichotomy between how the two individuals cope with their surroundings—the narrator does so through imaginative thinking, and John does so with practical thinking.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  29. The verb “to fancy” means to imagine something, often capricious or delusively. Readers should note that the narrator uses this word, which carries negative connotations, instead of the comparatively neutral “imagine.” Her husband has made her believe that her power of imagination is dangerous, and any that such thinking should be eliminated.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  30. The word “riotous” refers to something that is abundant and exuberant. In contrast to the stifling nature of the nursery, the garden outside is characterized by its untamed and wild abundance. The narrator watches from her secluded room as the flowers, bushes, and trees grow relentlessly—a representation of the dichotomy between her life of confinement and her desire for freedom.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  31. To silence the narrator, John often resorts to coddling her and calling her pet names. Here, he calls her “a blessed little goose” and comforts her like a child. By infantilizing the narrator, John dismisses her pleas to go downstairs. This pattern recurs frequently throughout the story—whenever the narrator raises an opinion, John silences her.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  32. Here, readers encounter the first of only two times the narrator mentions her baby. From these few lines readers can gather the key information that the narrator’s baby is a boy who is cared for by a nursemaid, Mary. As the she states, the narrator does not spend very much time with her son because doing so causes her to become anxious and experience feelings of exhaustion and sadness. Readers can ascertain that her nervous condition may be the result of postpartum depression.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  33. Notice how every element of the nursery room is intended to keep the narrator confined. The bedstead is nailed to the floor, the windows are barred, and the stairs are shut off by a gate. Despite the narrator’s plea to go downstairs, John insists that this confinement serves her some good. The narrator even begins to think so herself.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  34. The adjective “lurid” has a variety of definitions, all of which add to the overall gruesomeness of the yellow wallpaper. In its first definition, “lurid” describes something or someone that causes revulsion; second, it refers to someone or something with a ghastly, pale appearance; and finally, it describes the orange glow of fire when observed through smoke. Although seemingly contradictory, these three definitions demonstrate the changing nature of the wallpaper. At one moment, the wallpaper looks pale and yellow; in the next, it looks as though it is “smouldering”—burning with smoke—and tinted in an orange glow.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  35. To describe the yellow wallpaper, the narrator combines visual and olfactory imagery with consonance. The first technique—visual imagery—is seen through the “unclean yellow” and “orange” that has been “faded by the slow-turning sunlight.” The olfactory imagery arises through her precise diction, specifically the words “sickly sulphur,” which references the pale yellow nonmetallic element that smells noxiously when burned. Finally, the narrator combines the unsavory consonance of both r and s sounds to illustrate the grating nature of the yellow paper. She employs words like “repellent,” “revolting,” “smouldering,” “slow-turning sunlight,” “lurid,” and “sickly sulphur.” When combined, all of these techniques contribute to a sense of corrosion and decay, and evoke the ghastly nature of the yellow wallpaper.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  36. The word “chintz” refers to the calicoes, or the printed cotton fabric, of India. The narrator desires color and animation—revealed through her wish to stay in the downstairs bedroom with the roses and chintz. However, at her husband’s urging, the couple sleeps in the nursery upstairs, which is contrastingly characterized by its dark, Gothic elements.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  37. Notice how Gilman does not attach specific dates to any of the journal entries; rather, each entry follows the next without a break, leaving it up to readers to follow the passage of time as signaled—or not signaled—by the narrator.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  38. “The Yellow Wallpaper” is formatted as the narrator’s journal entries. She takes up writing whenever she needs relief and often writes in the second person, as though she were speaking to a friend. However, her husband disapproves of this practice and chastises her whenever he sees her writing. The narrator, in turn, must write in secret. This circumstance lends her writing a tone of abruptness and curtness. Everything she writes is in one or two sentence increments and she often signs off when she sees her husband approaching. The brisk nature of these sentences demonstrates her anxiety and precariousness. She fears her husband’s “heavy opposition” and must write quickly and furtively. The format of these sentences also demonstrate how she dismisses her own thoughts, just as her husband does. The narrator will start with one thought and never finish it, instead cutting herself short as she begins the following sentence. In other instances, she will abruptly end a sentence by imagining how John would dismiss her.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  39. The narrator’s inability to differentiate between phosphates and phosphites demonstrates her addled state of mind and her inability to make sense of her reality. She employs the literary tool of polysyndeton—the repeated use of conjunctions without commas—to highlight her husband’s ineptitude. Since he is a so-called wise physician, he believes that he will be able to cure his wife. He prescribes her various medications, advises her not to work, and forces her to exercise. None of his instructions cure her; instead, his iron fist stifles her.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  40. The unnamed narrator of the story repeatedly intersperses her journal entries with rhetorical questions. In the first several paragraphs alone, the narrator asks herself, “And what can one do?”, “What is one to do?”, and “But what is one to do?” Using variations of the same refrain, Gilman hints at the narrator’s sense of confinement and her inability to think for herself. Each time she poses this question, the narrator cannot come up with an answer. In this environment—secluded in the nursery of a Gothic home on rest cure—the narrator cannot formulate her thoughts. Thus she is forced to repeatedly ask the same futile questions.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  41. Throughout the story, the narrator descends further into madness. Conversely, the image in the wallpaper becomes clearer. As the moonlight casts its glare onto the windows, the narrator finally perceives in the wallpaper an image of a woman behind bars. By now, readers should understand that the narrator is not seeing another woman but a reflection of herself in the yellow wallpaper. The narrator’s mirror image serves as a symbol for her own repressed self who desires to break free from the bars of forced subservience.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  42. Here, the speaker uses a simile to describe how the diagonal breadths of the wallpaper seem to shift without obeying any known laws of nature. The simile—of breadths like “wallowing seaweeds in full chase”—demonstrates the ever-changing, heedless nature of the wallpaper as it seems to surge and billow.

    — Tess, Owl Eyes Staff
  43. Notice how John’s refusal to believe his wife is “sick,” or to give credence to her feelings and fears about her condition, affects the narrator’s mental state throughout the story. As he is both her husband and a physician, John’s word carries ultimate authority for the narrator.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  44. Notice how the language John uses when speaking to the narrator reveals the patronizing way in which he treats her. Addressing her as “little girl” bolsters John’s isolation of his wife in a former nursery, his control over almost every aspect of her daily life, and his refusal to take what she says about herself seriously.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  45. Gilman sets the story in a former nursery in order to emphasize the infantilization of the narrator by her husband, John, who chooses this room for her against her will. The barred windows evoke a sinister sense of imprisonment and isolation.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  46. Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell was a real physician who originated the idea of the “rest cure” in the late 1800s, which he prescribed mostly for women—including Gilman herself—who suffered from “nervous disorders.” The rest cure involved a forced period of bed rest, isolation, total dependence on the part of the patient, and often forbade reading and writing.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  47. Gilman personifies the wallpaper through her use of a saying drawn from Proverbs 18:24 in the King James Bible: “A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” This biblical allusion illustrates how closely the wallpaper sticks to the wall and how difficult it is to tear away.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  48. Gilman draws on motifs from gothic literature—a popular genre in the 1800s—in her description of the “strange,” isolated, seemingly haunted mansion with its ruined greenhouses, abandoned servants’ cottages, extensive gardens, and mysterious past. Gothic tales often revolved around a troubled heroine narrating her own story while imprisoned in such a setting.

    — Jules, Owl Eyes Staff
  49. Arabesque art and architecture is characterized by the use of floral imagery in elaborate, interlacing patterns. In that sense, the use of the word "florid" here is redundant, but does indicate that the narrator feels disdain towards the pattern and finds it ugly (as indicated when she likens it to fungus).

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  50. Delirium tremens refers to a state of confusion and psychosis generally brought on by withdrawal from alcohol or narcotics. Using this term in relation to the debased Romanesque art suggests that the wallpaper pattern is particularly chaotic and confused.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  51. Romanesque art flourished from approximately 1000 AD to the middle of the 13th Century, when Gothic art became prominent. Romanesque art is characterized by the use of primary colors, flourishes, natural imagery, and architectural patterns. Since religious and Biblical iconography were common is Romanesque art, the description of a "debased" Romanesque suggests an unholy pattern, something that isn't sanctified or harmonious.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  52. While there is something charming about the idea of a young girl's imagination getting the better of her, this line indicates that her mind has always been restless and that her current mental health issues could be part of a larger pattern of troubles.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  53. One of the major themes of "The Yellow Wallpaper" is silence and the way that women's voices are silenced. There's no physical reason for the narrator not to be allowed to write, but under her rest cure, it is prohibited to her. Her husband is very controlling in the enforcement of her treatment, preventing her voice from being heard.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  54. Modern readers will likely recognize this as a sign of infidelity. While the estate's remote location would make travel between patients difficult for John, we can't entirely discount the possibility that the narrator's husband is having an affair.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  55. While Gilman's narrator has been diagnosed with hysteria, that was frequently used as a "catch-all" for a variety of different diagnoses. Most likely, she is suffering from postpartum depression and resultant psychosis. In the late 19th and early 20th century doctors didn't recognize postpartum depression as an illness and didn't take a woman's mental health very seriously, which resulted in many cases of misdiagnosis.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  56. Hysteria was once a very common medical diagnosis ascribed to women who displayed certain unruly habits and behaviors or seemed to be suffering from a nervous condition. Hysteria was thought by the ancient Greeks to be caused by a "wandering womb" and was in the 19th and 20th centuries treated with "massages," many of which were performed with vibrators.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor
  57. At the time of this story's writing, women suffering from a wide variety of conditions were prescribed "rest cures," which consisted largely of lying in bed and not moving or doing anything. Gilman was very vocal about having written this story to prove the rest cure wrong after her own damaging experience. It was specifically aimed at Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell, a major proponent of the rest cure.

    — Sinead, Owl Eyes Contributor