The Yellow Wallpaper, a short story written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and published in 1892, is a evocative and thought-provoking exploration of gender roles, mental health and the oppression of women in the nineteenth century.

The story is narrated by an unnamed woman who is prescribed a “rest cure” by her physician husband for her supposed nervous condition. Confined to a room with yellow wallpaper, the narrator becomes increasingly fixated on the wallpaper’s patterns, eventually descending into a state of madness. As the story progresses, the wallpaper becomes a symbol of the narrator’s deteriorating mental state and her entrapment within patriarchal societal structures.

Gilman’s work challenges prevailing notions of femininity and the stifling constraints imposed on women during the Victorian era. The yellow wallpaper serves as a metaphor for the narrator’s own confinement and the restrictive gender roles that denied women agency and autonomy.

Through the descent into madness, Gilman exposes the damaging consequences of denying women intellectual and creative stimulation. The story highlights the need for self-expression and individuality as essential to mental well-being, rather than the oppressive silencing of women’s voices.

The Yellow Wallpaper also offers a critique of the medical profession’s treatment of the mental health of women. The narrator’s husband, who serves as her physician, dismisses her concerns, undermines her experiences and further exacerbates her deteriorating mental state. Gilman sheds light on the dismissive and patronizing attitudes prevalent towards women’s emotional and psychological well-being at the time.

The story’s lasting impact lies in its examination of the oppressive nature of gender roles, the devaluation of women’s experiences, and the consequences of denying women agency and self-expression. Gilman’s vivid and haunting prose draws readers into the narrator’s deteriorating mental state, evoking a sense of unease and discomfort.

The Yellow Wallpaper remains a significant work of feminist literature, impacting readers across generations. It serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of individual autonomy, mental well-being and the ongoing struggle for gender equality. Gilman’s story continues to inspire discussions on the complexities of mental health, societal expectations and the need for recognizing and validating the mental state and thoughts of women.

The Yellow Wallpaper

1. Cover
2. Books that Speak to us Across Time
3. Also from Trove
4. Title Page
5. Copyright Page
6. About the Author
7. About the Book
8. Back Cover

Books that Speak to us Across Time

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Also from Trove

DOI: 10.4324/9789358780451-1

 1. Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare

 2. Arms and the Man by George Bernard Shaw

 3. The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells

 4. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

 5. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle

 6. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

 7. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

 8. A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man by James Joyce

 9. The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot

10. The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy

11. Moby Dick or The Whale by Melville Herman

12. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

13. Animal Farm by George Orwell

14. Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne

15. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

16. She Stoops to Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith

17. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

18. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

19. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

20. Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome

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The Yellow Wallpaper

By
Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Newgen Knowledge Works Offices

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First published in 1892 in The New England Magazine

This book has been inspired from the original version of The Yellow Wallpaper first published in 1892, available in the public domain. Due care and diligence have been taken while bringing out this edition; neither the author nor the publishers of the book hold any responsibility for any mistake that may have inadvertently crept in. The publishers shall not be liable for any direct, consequential, or incidental damages arising out of the use of the book.

© Trove Books Edition, 2023

Paperback ISBN: 978-93-5878-045-1

eBook ISBN: 978-93-5878-015-4

WebPDF: 978-93-5878-030-7

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About the Author

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935) was an American writer, lecturer and social reformer who made significant contributions to feminist literature and feminist theory. She is best known for her ground-breaking short story, The Yellow Wallpaper, which challenged societal norms and shed light on the treatment of women’s mental health during the Victorian era.

Gilman was a prominent figure in the women’s suffrage movement and an advocate for women’s economic independence and equality. She believed that women’s social and economic dependency on men perpetuated their oppression and limited their opportunities for personal and intellectual growth.

Through her writings and lectures, Gilman argued for women’s right to education, professional careers and a more egalitarian society. She critiqued traditional gender roles and called for a re-evaluation of the patriarchal structures that put constrains on women’s lives.

In addition to The Yellow Wallpaper, Gilman wrote several other works of fiction, non-fiction and poetry that tackled various social issues, including women’s rights, motherhood and the impact of capitalism on society. Her works often presented alternative visions of society, emphasizing the importance of cooperation, empathy and social equality.

One of her notable non-fiction works is Women and Economics (1898), in which she explored the economic dependency of women and argued for their right to work and contribute to society. The book challenged prevailing notions of women’s roles in the home and advocated for social reforms to improve women’s economic opportunities.

Gilman’s ideas and writings were radical for her time, and she faced criticism and backlash for her feminist views. However, her work has had a lasting impact on feminist literature and continues to inspire scholars, writers, and activists today.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s contributions to feminist theory and literature are significant. Her exploration of gender roles, women’s mental health and economic independence challenged the status quo and paved the way for future generations of feminist thinkers and writers. Her commitment to social justice and equality remains a powerful influence in the ongoing fight for gender equality and women’s rights.

About the Book

DOI: 10.4324/9789358780451-1

The Yellow Wallpaper, a short story written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and published in 1892, is a evocative and thought-provoking exploration of gender roles, mental health and the oppression of women in the nineteenth century.

The story is narrated by an unnamed woman who is prescribed a “rest cure” by her physician husband for her supposed nervous condition. Confined to a room with yellow wallpaper, the narrator becomes increasingly fixated on the wallpaper’s patterns, eventually descending into a state of madness. As the story progresses, the wallpaper becomes a symbol of the narrator’s deteriorating mental state and her entrapment within patriarchal societal structures.

Gilman’s work challenges prevailing notions of femininity and the stifling constraints imposed on women during the Victorian era. The yellow wallpaper serves as a metaphor for the narrator’s own confinement and the restrictive gender roles that denied women agency and autonomy.

Through the descent into madness, Gilman exposes the damaging consequences of denying women intellectual and creative stimulation. The story highlights the need for self-expression and individuality as essential to mental well-being, rather than the oppressive silencing of women’s voices.

The Yellow Wallpaper also offers a critique of the medical profession’s treatment of the mental health of women. The narrator’s husband, who serves as her physician, dismisses her concerns, undermines her experiences and further exacerbates her deteriorating mental state. Gilman sheds light on the dismissive and patronizing attitudes prevalent towards women’s emotional and psychological well-being at the time.

The story’s lasting impact lies in its examination of the oppressive nature of gender roles, the devaluation of women’s experiences, and the consequences of denying women agency and self-expression. Gilman’s vivid and haunting prose draws readers into the narrator’s deteriorating mental state, evoking a sense of unease and discomfort.

The Yellow Wallpaper remains a significant work of feminist literature, impacting readers across generations. It serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of individual autonomy, mental well-being and the ongoing struggle for gender equality. Gilman’s story continues to inspire discussions on the complexities of mental health, societal expectations and the need for recognizing and validating the mental state and thoughts of women.

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.