The Yellow Wallpaper and "What Diantha Did". Charlotte Perkins Gilman

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ