The Yellow Wallpaper (Legend Classics)

By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

“The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.”

Written with barely controlled fury after she was confined to her room for 'nerves' and forbidden to write, Gilman's pioneering feminist horror story scandalized nineteenth-century readers with its portrayal of a woman who loses her mind because she has literally nothing to do.

The Legend Classics series:
Around the World in Eighty Days
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Importance of Being Earnest
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
The Metamorphosis
The Railway Children
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Frankenstein
Wuthering Heights
Three Men in a Boat
The Time Machine
Little Women
Anne of Green Gables
The Jungle Book
The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories
Dracula
A Study in Scarlet
Leaves of Grass
The Secret Garden
The War of the Worlds
A Christmas Carol
Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Heart of Darkness
The Scarlet Letter
This Side of Paradise
Oliver Twist
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Treasure Island
The Turn of the Screw
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Emma
The Trial
A Selection of Short Stories by Edgar Allan Poe
Grimm Fairy Tales
The Awakening
Mrs Dalloway
Gulliver’s Travels
The Castle of Otranto
Silas Marner
Hard Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781787198319

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935) was an American author, feminist, and social reformer. Born in Hartford, Connecticut, Gilman was raised by her mother after her father abandoned his family to poverty. A single mother, Mary Perkins struggled to provide for her son and daughter, frequently enlisting the help of her estranged husband’s aunts, including Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. These early experiences shaped Charlotte’s outlook on gender and society, inspiring numerous written works and a lifetime of activism. Gilman excelled in school as a youth and went on to study at the Rhode Island School of Design where, in 1879, she met a woman named Martha Luther. The two were involved romantically for the next few years until Luther married in 1881. Distraught, Gilman eventually married Charles Walter Stetson, a painter, in 1884, with whom she had one daughter. After Katharine’s birth, Gilman suffered an intense case of post-partum depression, an experience which inspired her landmark story “The Yellow Wallpaper” (1890). Gilman and Stetson divorced in 1894, after which Charlotte moved to California and became active in social reform. Gilman was a pioneer of the American feminist movement and an early advocate for women’s suffrage, divorce, and euthanasia. Her radical beliefs and controversial views on race—Gilman was known to support white supremacist ideologies—nearly consigned her work to history; at the time of her death none of her works remained in print. In the 1970s, however, the rise of second-wave feminism and its influence on literary scholarship revived her reputation, bringing her work back into publication.

Book preview

Turned

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.

He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. ‘Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,’ said he, ‘and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time.’ So we took the nursery, at the top of the house.

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys’ school had used it. It is stripped off – the paper – in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide – plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions.

The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.

There comes John, and I must put this away, – he hates to have me write a word.

We have been here two weeks, and I haven’t felt like writing before, since that first day.

I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.

John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.

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 wallpaper!

At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.

He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.

‘You know the place is doing you good,’ he said, ‘and really, dear, I don’t care to renovate the house just for a three months’ rental.’

‘Then do let us go downstairs,’ I said, ‘there are such pretty rooms there.’

Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.

It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.

I’m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.

Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.

But I find I get pretty tired when I try.

It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.

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 wallpaper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother – they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.

Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.

But I don’t mind it a bit – only the paper.

There comes John’s sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing.

She is a perfect, and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!

But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.

There is one that commands the road, a lovely, shaded, winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.

This wallpaper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.

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

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 wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper.

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

Reviews for The Yellow Wallpaper (Legend Classics)

[ionas_7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I hadn’t any previous experience of this author. When reading the story I felt that it was the most horrifying piece of writing I had ever read, though when looking through it I didn’t feel that it was so bad. Reputedly, the story was based on the author’s own experience of her psychosis We’re not given the name of the woman recounting her experience, and I will call her the protagonist, or the P. Two of the first things that meet the eye are the protagonist’s negative comments about marriage, that the P’s husband John laughs at her (which is to be expected in marriage) and also negative comments about doctors. The P remarks that one reason she is not getting well faster may be because her husband is a physician. He does not believe she is “sick””, and what can one do? Both her husband and brother are doctors “of high standing” and both think there is nothing the matter with her except “a temporary nervous depression” or “slight hysterical tendency”. Perhaps at some level, then, the P feels obliged to prove them both wrong, that there really is something wrong with her; thus the need and “satisfaction” at some level to develop a full-blown psychosis. She is forbidden to work or write; but she is a woman with her own opinions and she herself feels that congenial work would do her good. She feels that if she had less “opposition” and “more society and stimulus”, she would feel better. We’re warned from the start that strange things are about to happen; she feels there is something queer, something strange, about the house. And otherwise, how had they been able to rent it so cheaply, and why would it have “"stood so long untenanted”? John is “very careful and loving” but he does not listen to his wife’s objections to the room he has chosen for them to sleep in. John is absolutely controlling; he chooses the house and the bedroom they’ve to sleep in and dictates what the P is permitted to do. When the P tells her left-brained husband what she feels about the house, he has so little understanding of what she’s talking about that he claims what she felt was a draught! She would have preferred to use as a bedroom a downstairs room with roses all over the window, but John wouldn’t hear of it. John has a “schedule prescription” for each hour in the day – the utnost control. Is this a general criticism of the control of all, or most, husbands of the times? At least the P is permitted to eat that which her appetite dictates, at any rate, “somewhat”. The room John chose for the bedroom was the former nursery that had bars on the windows. This is metaphoric for the P’s feeling of imprisonment when confined to the room. She had never seen worse wall-paper in her life. The colour of the wall-paper is a “smoldering unclean yellow”. John hates her to have to write a word. The P tells us that she is suffering, whereas logical John says there is no reason to suffer. (This is his subjective opinion.) She says her baby is “so dear” but she cannot be with him since it makes her so nervous. She supposes John was never nervous in his life. I will not cite any more details but will talk in a general manner. The author discloses in a gradual and subtle manner the start of the psychosis. First, she becomes convinced there is a woman or several women behind bars in the wall-paper, trying to get out. Later, she fails to distinguish between herself and the woman/women. She begins to display a slight paranoia, in that she gets a little afraid of John and Jennie (John’s sister), and feels they both give her strange looks. She projects her own problems onto John, and she thinks that he is getting queer now. She doesn’t like the look in John’s eyes and feels he is only pretending to be loving and kind. Now she. sees many creeping women outside, creeping so fast. Finally, she talks about she herself having to get back behind the pattern. She thinks she is the woman or one of the women behind the pattern. Eventually, John comes in the room and sees her creeping on the floor, realizes something is very wrong and faints. To sum up, I felt this to be an excellent and superbly written story and may read some of the author’s other stories.

[leslie398 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What a wonderfully creepy short story (novella?)! I had plenty of suspicions about what was going to happen, but wasn't even close...

[dste_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think that The Yellow Wallpaper is a really good short story. The way that the plot unravels on it's way to the ending is really skillful. I'm also impressed by the fact that the author went through a similar situation and was able to find her way out of it! Knowing that the author wrote from experience added a lot of credibility to the story as a whole.

[john257hopper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is an interesting short story about the psychological disintegration of a woman, seeing images in the eponymous object around her as she lays in her sickbed. Too short to exert a really powerful impact, though, for me. 3.5/5

[serenity_tigerlily · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I first read this piece for an English class a couple years ago and it’s been with me ever since. It’s a fairly short read but when it’s over it still haunts you and leaves you chilled to the bone. I think that this story depicts how someone with a mental illness could feel when their illness isn’t validated and properly cared for.

[ajbraithwaite_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wow, this is a great short story. Creepy, sinister and unbearably sad.

[eclecticdodo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A short story chronicling one woman's descent into madness, poorly understood by those around her, and tormented by the ghastly yellow wallpaper in her bedroom. Very well told. I only wish it were longer.

[dreesie-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It starts so simply...a couple is on vacation. She is ill and taking a rest in the country. But is that true? She is scared, and trapped, and not allowed to leave. Her fear is palpable. Or, maybe, she is an extremely unreliable narrator?

[arkrayder · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was an okay short story about a woman’s decent into psychosis. It’s written in the form of a diary entry but there are no dates or times. Just a long stream of consciousness. Quick read.

[sullwyn · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was shorter than I expected.. But interesting.. I loved the visuals I got from her description of the creeping woman behind the pattern in the wallpaper... And to learn ultimately that it was herself she saw trapped behind it.. Creepy.. And sad.. I enjoyed it!

[mmwiseheart · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

** spoiler alert ** This is a fantastic insight into the mind of someone who has been suffering from undiagnosed post-partum depression. Her husband believes she just needs rest and confines her to a room with yellow wallpaper. The result of this isolation is a mental breakdown.

[pepperwings · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's fascinating and also mystifying how people handled mental stress, or mental disorders years ago, what things helped some people, and drove others further into madness. From what I understand, this story is partially true, based on the author's experience and hallucinations, and the frustration from people who largely had good intentions. Of course, from a feminist point of view, it's terrible how little people listened to what she wanted, or worked to truly understand and help.

[readingover50 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Read this short story in 1 sitting. It is the story of a woman's descent into madness following the birth of her child and the subsequent enforced rest. She is taken to a country house to recover and spends most of her time confined to a room with horrid yellow wallpaper. The description of the room makes me think what happens to the woman has happened in the past. A creepy, thought provoking read.

[citizenjoyce · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a classic of feminist literature. It tells of a woman suffering from depression which is made worse and worse by the paternalistic care of her "loving" husband who treats her as a child, manages every aspect of her life, discourages her writing career, and dismisses any concern she might have. His idea of a cure for depression seems to be that she sleep for 3 months and not trouble her pretty little brain. The result is a very moving, very creepy story.

[basilsbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have been meaning to read this for such a long time and I finally did and it leaves me wishing I could read it again for the first time again, I really enjoyed this one

[kikiunhinged · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Brilliant work and I love how disturbing people thought it was when she wrote it. As if one would have to be insane to be able to write that brilliantly. Loved it and will read it again.

[amydross · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Never read this as a kid, realized I probably should. An interesting perspective on interior decorating.

[bookwyrmm_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I first came across this title when working on a project involving influential women. What little I heard about this story intrigued me, and now having read it, all I can say is "wow". This definitely has a mind-blowing quotient to it and begs discussion. I also loved how it felt gothic.

[theeccentriclady · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Interesting read from a different era. Not sure how I really feel even after 2 months. I like dark and books about insanity but this one was a bit out there.

[wendyfairy · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This edition has a version "translated" into modern English, as well as the original in an appendix. There are also two scholarly essays, and some additional statements from the author about the women's right to vote and why she wrote The Yellow Wallpaper.

[laneliterati · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excitingly creepy in every way.

[jewelknits · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A journalized descent into a woman's madness . . . brought on yellow wallpaper.A quick, rather creepy sort of read.

[ginger72_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Chilling !A haunting tale of one womans descent into mental illness. Short but yet slightly eerie as you follow her decline into the madness. Loved it !

[musecure · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow! How is it I've never run across this before? Gilman's writing and characterization is superb. This is definitely one to go back to again and again.

[mhenry4_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This short story is one that took me a short time to read, but inspired days of thought. It's a wonderfully written way to dive into the complex issues of the way society viewed/views mental illness, particularly the way the medical profession views mental illness, and the consequences. Also inspiring me to think about the subtle mistreatment of women in this era, it was really one of the most thought-provoking works I've read despite the short length.

[hotwolfie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is my favorite short story. It's a good look at the repression of women, the mistreatment of women by society and the medical profession, and sexual oppression. It's an interesting representation of how post-partum depression was completely ignored in the past. It's a creepy, short story about a depressed woman's descent into madness after her husband locks her away in an old nursery (windows barred, door locked). Very chilling read.

[altheaann · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A re-read of a classic. ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ is a spooky-as-hell ghost story which maintains a nice ambiguity all the way through – but it’s also a raw, effective protest against the infantilization of women and even a call to arms regarding awareness of mental illness. Gilman is great at leaving what doesn’t need to be said unsaid. There are no ‘morals’ stated here, but her stance is clear.
(And was that room ever a ‘playroom’ or ‘gymnasium’? Oh hell no.)

[countrylife_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A gradual descent into madness, as ‘journaled’ by a Victorian lady. Semi-autobiographical, and subtly written, this depression settling into something darker delivers chills along with the story.

[rumpeltje · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Although this is a short story it is very powerful. You pick up on the slow deterioration of the main character, but like with the wallpaper it isn't that clear in the beginning.

What the attic room has been used for in the past is also up for discussion. I personally believe that although it might once have been used as nursery its previous function might be totally different.

[bale_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Yellow Wallpaper is a dark and powerfully written tale, first published in 1892, about a woman's descent into madness. Her psychosis is brought on by the social restrictions of the time, a controlling husband and the deteriorating yellow wallpaper that covers their bedroom.