[adapted]

by
Charlotte Perkins Gilman

It is not often that normal people like John and me get to stay in an old family house for the summer.

A colonial house, a family estate—I would call it a haunted house, and say it was wonderfully romantic—but that would be asking too much from luck!

Still, I will proudly say that there is something strange about it.

Otherwise, why would it be rented for so little money? And why has it been empty for so long?

John laughs at me, of course, but that’s normal in marriage.

John is very practical. He doesn’t believe in feelings or guesses. He hates anything superstitious, and he makes fun of anything you can’t touch, see, or count.

John is a doctor, and maybe—(I wouldn’t say this to anyone, of course, but this is just paper and it helps me to say it)—maybe that is one reason I’m not getting better faster.

You see, he doesn’t think I’m really sick!

And what can a person do?

If a respected doctor—and your own husband—tells your family and friends that there is really nothing wrong with you except some nervous sadness—a little bit of hysteria—what can you do?

My brother is also a doctor, and also well-respected, and he says the same thing.

So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is—and tonics, and go on trips, and get fresh air, and exercise, and I am completely not allowed to “work” until I’m better.

I don’t agree with their ideas.

I believe that work I enjoy, with excitement and change, would help me feel better.

But what can I do?

I did write for a while, even though they didn’t want me to; but it does make me tired—having to hide it, or else deal with their strong disapproval.

I sometimes think that if I had less pressure and more friends and interesting things to do—but John says the worst thing I can do is think about my health, and I admit it always makes me feel worse.

So I will leave that alone and talk about the house.

It’s such a beautiful place! It stands all by itself, set back from the road, about three miles from the town. It reminds me of English houses you read about, because it has hedges and walls and gates that lock, and many small buildings for gardeners and workers.

There is a lovely garden! I have never seen a garden like it—big and shady, full of paths bordered with box plants, and long grape-covered walkways with benches under them.

There were greenhouses too, but they are all broken now.

There was some legal problem, I think, something about the people who inherited the house; anyway, the place has been empty for years.

That kind of ruins the idea of ghosts, I’m afraid; but I don’t mind—there is still something strange about the house—I can feel it.

I even told John that one night when the moon was out, but he said what I felt was just a cold wind, and he closed the window.

I get upset with John for no good reason sometimes. I’m sure I didn’t used to be so sensitive. I think it’s because of my nervous condition.

But John says if I feel that way I might lose my self-control; so I try hard to stay calm—at least when he’s around—and that makes me very tired.

I don’t like our room at all. I wanted one downstairs that opened onto the porch and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned fabric on the walls! But John wouldn’t even consider it.

He said it only had one window, not enough space for two beds, and no room nearby for him if he used another room.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me move without special instructions.

I have a set plan for every hour of the day; he takes care of everything for me, and so I feel terribly ungrateful for not appreciating it more.

He said we came here just for me, that I was supposed to rest completely and get as much fresh air as possible. “Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,” he said, “and your food depends a little on your hunger; but you can take in air all the time.” So we took the nursery at the top of the house.

It’s a big, open room—almost the whole floor—with windows on every side, and tons of air and sunshine. I think it used to be a nursery, then a playroom, and even a gym. The windows have bars for little kids, and there are rings and things attached to the walls.

The paint and wallpaper look like a bunch of boys went wild in there. The wallpaper is torn off in big pieces all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a big spot low on the other side of the room. I’ve never seen worse wallpaper in my life.

It has a wild, messy pattern that breaks every rule of good design.

It is boring enough to confuse your eyes when you try to follow it, but strong enough to always annoy you, and make you want to figure it out. And when you follow the weak, shaky lines for a little while, they suddenly go wild—turn off in crazy directions, and mess themselves up in strange and impossible ways.

The color is awful, almost disgusting; a smoky, dirty yellow, strangely faded by the slowly moving sunlight.

It looks like a dull, glowing orange in some places, and a sick, sulfur yellow in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I would hate it too if I had to live in this room for a long time.

Here comes John, and I must put this away—he hates it when I write even a little bit.

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

I am sitting by the window now, up in this terrible nursery, and there is nothing stopping me from writing as much as I want, except not having enough strength.

John is gone all day, and even some nights when his patients are very sick.

I’m glad my case isn’t serious!

But these nervous problems are really sad and tiring.

John doesn’t know how much I truly suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that’s enough for him.

Of course, it’s just nervousness. But it makes me feel so bad not to do my duties!

I wanted to be such a help to John, a real comfort and support, and now I already feel like a burden!

No one would believe how hard it is to do the small things I still can do—like getting dressed, being friendly, and managing the house.

It’s a good thing Mary is so good with the baby. Such a sweet baby!

And yet I can’t be with him—it makes me too nervous.

I guess John has never been nervous in his life. He laughs at me so much about this wallpaper!

At first he planned to put up new wallpaper, but later he said I was letting it bother me too much, and that nothing is worse for a nervous person than to give in to silly ideas.

He said that after the wallpaper, it would be the heavy bed, and then the barred windows, and then the gate at the top of the stairs, and so on.

“You know this place is helping you,” he said, “and really, dear, I don’t want to fix up the house just for a three-month stay.”