The Yellow Wallpaper
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
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This book has 13 pages in the PDF version, and was originally published in 1892.
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Description
The Yellow Wallpaper is a 6,000-word short story by the American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman, first published in January 1892 in The New England Magazine. It is regarded as an important early work of American feminist literature for it's portrayal of how women's health (both physical and mental) were perceived in the 19th century. Written as a collection of journal entries, the story details the narrator's descent into madness. Her husband has rented a mansion for the summer. A physician, he has forbidden his wife from working or writing whilst she recovers from depression. She offers up many suggestions that might help her, such as exercising and socialising, but she is dismissed as not able to offer ideas on her own condition.
Alone in the upstairs nursery, our narrator becomes fixated on the wallpaper in the room, describing in detail it's colour, smell, and pattern. Eventually, she begins to see a figure in the design, and comes to believe that there is a woman behind it; a woman who, like her, was confined there against her will.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman said that the idea for the story came from her own experience as a patient who suffered years of depression. Like Jane in the book, she had been prescribed a 'rest' from work, and was only allowed 2 hours of mental stimulation a day.
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Production notes: This edition of The Yellow Wallpaper was published by Global Grey ebooks on the 4th February 2021. The artwork used for the cover is 'The Young Model' by Federico Zandomeneghi.
Random Piece of Information: Re-working these books on a lazy Sunday, but keep getting distracted.
Thoughts whilst doing this book: It's very short, and that makes me happy.
Excerpt from '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 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.
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