The Yellow Wallpaper (for Advanced Levels C1-C2)

The Yellow Wallpaper is a remarkable short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, first published in January 1892 in The New England Magazine. Combining psychological suspense, vivid imagery, and social criticism, the story explores the relationship between mental health, personal freedom, marriage, and the restrictions imposed on women in the nineteenth century. Although it was written more than a century ago, its themes remain relevant to modern readers.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935) was an American writer, lecturer, and social reformer. She became well known for her writings on women’s rights, gender inequality, and the social expectations placed upon women. Through her fiction and nonfiction, she challenged traditional ideas about marriage, domestic life, women’s independence, and their opportunities for intellectual development.

Gilman’s own experiences with a period of severe emotional distress influenced the background of The Yellow Wallpaper. The story is often discussed in connection with the medical attitudes of the nineteenth century, particularly the belief that women suffering from nervous disorders should avoid intellectual activity and devote themselves to rest and domestic life. Gilman used literature to question such assumptions and to draw attention to the consequences of denying women independence and meaningful work.

About the Story

The story follows an unnamed woman who spends the summer in a large, isolated mansion with her husband, John, a physician. Although she experiences considerable emotional distress, John believes that rest, fresh air, and a carefully controlled routine will help her recover. He discourages her from writing, working, and engaging in activities that might stimulate her mind.

The woman is placed in an upstairs room that was once used as a nursery. Its windows are barred, its furniture is damaged, and its walls are covered with disturbing yellow wallpaper. At first, she simply dislikes its colour and irregular design. Gradually, however, she becomes fascinated by its patterns and begins to believe that a woman is trapped behind them.

As her obsession intensifies, the boundary between observation and imagination becomes increasingly uncertain. Her relationship with the wallpaper changes, as does her understanding of herself and the people around her. The story reaches a disturbing conclusion that leaves readers questioning the meaning of freedom, confinement, and psychological suffering.

Rather than relying on conventional horror, Gilman creates suspense through the narrator’s private thoughts, the oppressive atmosphere of the house, and the gradual transformation of her perceptions.

About This C1-Level Adaptation

This version of The Yellow Wallpaper has been carefully rewritten for learners of English at CEFR C1 (Advanced) level. It is an adaptation of the original story, not the original text itself. The aim is to preserve the essential plot, characters, atmosphere, symbolism, and psychological development while presenting the narrative in clear, natural, and sophisticated modern English.

The adaptation is divided into six chapters to make the story easier to follow without losing its literary depth. It retains the first-person narration, the narrator’s conflicting emotions, the gradual development of her obsession, and the unsettling ending. The language includes advanced vocabulary, natural collocations, complex sentence structures, figurative expressions, and subtle distinctions in tone and meaning.

While reading, learners will encounter useful language for describing emotions, expressing uncertainty, discussing relationships, interpreting visual details, and communicating complex ideas. They will also have an opportunity to observe how an author’s choice of words, sentence structure, repetition, and imagery can shape a reader’s experience.

Why Should You Read This Story?

Reading The Yellow Wallpaper offers more than an opportunity to improve your English. It allows you to engage with a powerful literary work while developing the language skills needed to understand sophisticated texts.

1. Expand your advanced vocabulary. Learn precise words and expressions related to emotions, psychological tension, personal freedom, social expectations, and human relationships. Encountering these words in context will help you understand how they are used naturally.

2. Improve your reading comprehension. Follow a psychologically complex narrative in which the narrator’s thoughts and perceptions change gradually. You will practise identifying important details, recognizing implied meanings, and understanding information that is suggested rather than directly stated.

3. Develop your understanding of advanced grammar. Observe how complex sentences, subordinate clauses, modal verbs, and different narrative structures express uncertainty, contrast, hesitation, and emotional intensity. Seeing these structures in a meaningful literary context can help you recognize and use them more confidently.

4. Learn to interpret figurative language. The yellow wallpaper is more than a decorative feature of the room. Its changing appearance contributes to the story’s atmosphere and invites readers to consider ideas about confinement, identity, and independence. Studying these descriptions will help you recognize symbolism, imagery, and metaphor in English literature.

5. Understand different perspectives. The narrator’s account raises questions about the relationship between what people experience and what others believe about them. By examining her descriptions and conversations with John, you can practise distinguishing facts, opinions, assumptions, and uncertain interpretations.

6. Experience authentic literary English. Unlike texts written solely to demonstrate grammar rules, this adaptation uses language to develop character, create suspense, and communicate subtle emotions. It provides an opportunity to see how advanced English works in an extended literary narrative.

7. Develop critical thinking. The story does not offer simple answers to every question it raises. Its unresolved ending encourages readers to consider different interpretations, evaluate textual evidence, and express their own opinions in English.

How to Get the Most from This Story

For the best learning experience, read each chapter carefully rather than trying to finish the entire story at once. First, focus on understanding the events and the narrator’s feelings. Then reread passages containing unfamiliar expressions, complex sentences, or striking descriptions.

Try to infer the meanings of new words from context before consulting a dictionary. Pay attention to recurring images, changes in the narrator’s language, and the contrast between what she says aloud and what she records privately.

After finishing the story, consider how the wallpaper’s significance changes throughout the narrative and why the ending remains open to interpretation. You can also summarize each chapter in your own words and discuss the characters’ decisions using the new vocabulary you have learned.

The Yellow Wallpaper is particularly suitable for C1 learners who want to move beyond basic reading comprehension and develop a deeper understanding of advanced English, literary expression, and implied meaning. By combining language study with a compelling psychological narrative, this adaptation offers a rewarding reading experience that can strengthen both your English proficiency and your appreciation of literature.

This story, The Yellow Wallpaper, has been carefully adapted and rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for advanced English learners. The original work by Charlotte Perkins Gilman is in the public domain. This learner-friendly adaptation uses clear, modern English while preserving the main characters, events, psychological depth, symbolism, and themes of the original story. It is designed to help C1-level learners develop their reading comprehension, expand their vocabulary, and deepen their understanding of literary English. Enjoy reading and improve your English skills!

The Yellow Wallpaper

By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Contents

Chapter One: The House and the Treatment

Chapter Two: The Nursery and the Yellow Wallpaper

Chapter Three: The Growing Obsession

Chapter Four: The Woman Behind the Pattern

Chapter Five: The Last Days

Chapter Six: At Last, I Am Out

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

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Chapter One

The House and the Treatment

It is not often that people like John and me are able to rent an ancestral mansion for the summer. A colonial house, an old family estate—almost a haunted house, if one allows oneself a little romantic imagination. Such a place seemed far beyond anything we had a right to expect.

Yet there was something peculiar about it. Why else was it available at such a modest rent? And why had it remained empty for so many years?

John laughed when I suggested that the house might be haunted. He is accustomed to laughing at my fancies. In marriage, I suppose, one must learn to tolerate certain things.

John is practical to the point of stubbornness. He has little patience with superstition and distrusts anything that cannot be examined, measured, or established by evidence. As a physician, he believes firmly in what he can observe. Unfortunately, he applies the same principles to my condition, and I sometimes wonder whether this is one reason I have failed to recover.

He does not believe that I am seriously ill.

When a respected doctor, who also happens to be one’s husband, assures friends and relatives that there is nothing fundamentally wrong, that one is suffering from nothing more than temporary nervous depression and a slight tendency to hysteria, what argument can one offer? My brother, another physician of considerable standing, agrees with him entirely.

Consequently, I take tonics and other preparations whose names I can never quite remember. I am prescribed fresh air, exercise, nourishing food, and journeys to places that are supposed to restore my health. Above all, I am forbidden to work until I have recovered.

I disagree with this treatment. I have always believed that meaningful work, provided it is not excessive, would do me good. A little excitement, some change of scene, and the company of people who stimulate my mind might restore something that seems to have disappeared from my life.

I tried to write for a while despite their objections. However, keeping my work secret exhausts me almost as much as the writing itself. I must constantly conceal what I am doing, because the discovery would lead to another discussion about my health and another reminder that I ought to rest.

Sometimes I think I might improve more quickly if I were allowed less solitude and less opposition. But John insists that thinking about my condition is precisely what I must avoid. Whenever I try to explain how I feel, the conversation leaves me discouraged, and I begin to doubt my own judgment.

So I shall say no more about it for the moment. Instead, I will describe the house.

It stands well back from the road, nearly three miles from the village, surrounded by gardens, hedges, gates, and small buildings once occupied by gardeners and other servants. The grounds are magnificent. Shaded paths wind between carefully trimmed borders, while long grape-covered arbors provide cool places to sit. There are greenhouses, although their glass is broken and their former beauty has been left to decay.

I understand that some legal dispute among the heirs prevented the property from being occupied for years. That explanation ought to satisfy any sensible person, and perhaps it would satisfy John. Nevertheless, the house retains an atmosphere that I cannot quite explain.

One evening, when the moonlight lay across the grounds, I mentioned this feeling to him.

He said that what I had mistaken for something mysterious was probably a draught of cold air. Then he closed the window.

I was unreasonably irritated. Indeed, I have become more sensitive than I used to be, although John says that I must learn to exercise greater self-control. I therefore make a considerable effort to hide my irritation whenever he is present. The effort itself leaves me tired.

I had hoped to occupy a pleasant room downstairs, one opening onto the veranda, with roses climbing around the windows and old-fashioned curtains hanging beside them. John refused. The room had only one window, he explained, and there was insufficient space for two beds. He also wanted a bedroom nearby.

He is attentive to my needs and seldom allows me to make decisions without offering his advice. He has arranged a prescription for nearly every hour of my day, and he considers it an act of devotion to relieve me of responsibility. I feel ashamed of myself for not being more grateful, since he insists that we have come to the country entirely for my benefit.

“You must have as much fresh air as possible, my dear,” he told me. “Your exercise will depend on your strength, and your appetite must guide your meals. But you can always breathe.”

We therefore settled into the nursery at the top of the house.

It occupies almost the entire upper floor. The windows face in several directions, allowing sunlight and air to enter freely. There are bars across the windows, apparently installed when the room was used by small children, and rings fixed into the walls. Judging by its condition, it has served as a nursery, a playroom, and perhaps even a gymnasium.

The room is large and airy, but its appearance is far from cheerful. The paint is damaged, the floor is deeply scratched, and the walls bear marks left by years of rough use. In several places, the wallpaper has been torn away in large, irregular patches.

I have never seen wallpaper so unpleasant.

Its colour is a faded, unwholesome yellow, and its extravagant pattern seems to offend every principle of good design. The lines twist and wander without purpose, only to collapse at impossible angles. Following them with the eye is both tiring and strangely compelling.

I disliked it immediately.

At the time, however, I had no idea how much of my life that ridiculous pattern would come to occupy.

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Chapter Two

The Nursery and the Yellow Wallpaper

We have been here for two weeks, and I have scarcely felt strong enough to write since the day we arrived. I am sitting beside one of the nursery windows now, enjoying a brief period of solitude while John is away. There is nothing to prevent me from writing except my own lack of energy and the possibility that someone may discover me.

John dislikes seeing me write. He believes that any serious mental effort will interfere with my recovery, although I cannot understand how keeping my thoughts to myself is supposed to improve my condition.

He knows that I am unhappy, of course, but he does not understand the extent of it. In his opinion, there is no sufficient reason for me to suffer, and that conclusion seems to settle the matter.

I often feel that I am failing him. I wanted to be a source of comfort, someone who could make his life easier after a long day of work. Instead, I find ordinary activities exhausting. Even dressing, arranging things, or entertaining a visitor requires more effort than I can easily manage.

Fortunately, Mary is very good with the baby. He is a dear little child, and I love him, but I cannot spend much time with him without becoming nervous and distressed. I hate admitting this, even to myself. It seems an unnatural weakness in a mother.

Perhaps I should be grateful that the nursery is occupied by me rather than by him. The thought had never occurred to me before, but I would not willingly allow my child to spend his days in a room with walls that make me feel so uncomfortable.

John initially offered to have the wallpaper replaced. When I mentioned how much I disliked it, he seemed willing to consider the matter. Later, however, he decided that my concern was becoming an unhealthy obsession.

“If I changed the wallpaper,” he said, “you would soon find fault with the bed. Then you would complain about the windows, or the gate at the top of the stairs. Before long, nothing in the house would satisfy you.”

He reminded me that we were renting the property for only three months and that he had no intention of renovating it.

“Then let us move downstairs,” I suggested. “There are several pleasant rooms that would suit us perfectly.”

He laughed, drew me into his arms, and called me a foolish little creature. He said that, if I wished, he would even go down into the cellar and have it whitewashed for me.

His manner was affectionate, and I knew that he intended to reassure me. Still, I felt that my request had been dismissed rather than considered. I could not explain this distinction without seeming ungrateful.

In fairness, the nursery is comfortable in many respects. It receives plenty of sunlight, the air is fresh, and there is ample space to move about. I have gradually become accustomed to the room itself.

It is the wallpaper that remains intolerable.

From one window, I can see the garden, with its deep shadows, old-fashioned flowers, and overgrown trees. From another, I can see the bay and a small private landing place belonging to the estate. A shaded lane leads down towards the water.

The grounds are so extensive that I sometimes imagine people moving among the trees and beneath the arbors. John has warned me against indulging such fancies. He says that my imagination, which was once a source of pleasure, may now encourage me to interpret ordinary things in an unhealthy way.

I try to follow his advice. Yet the wallpaper continues to attract my attention, even when I deliberately look elsewhere.

There is something almost expressive about its design. One recurring shape resembles a face with two swollen eyes, its features turned upside down. The lines surrounding it twist like limbs caught in an awkward movement. The longer I examine them, the more disturbing they become.

I used to find similar amusement in ordinary objects when I was a child. The knobs of an old chest of drawers seemed to wink at me, while a particular chair gave me the reassuring impression of a dependable friend. I could always retreat to it whenever the other furniture appeared threatening.

Perhaps I have not entirely outgrown that habit of imagination.

The room contains other unpleasant features. The great bed is heavy and immovable, apparently fastened in place. The floor is scratched and splintered, the plaster has been damaged in several places, and the wallpaper has been torn away wherever small hands could reach it.

The children who once occupied the room must have hated it as much as I do. Their determination to remove the paper is evident in every ragged patch.

I cannot help wondering what made them so persistent.

The pattern is not merely ugly. It seems deliberately designed to frustrate the eye. Its curves promise a direction and then abruptly reverse themselves. Lines that appear to belong together separate without warning, while others join at angles that make no sense.

Sometimes I try to follow one line from beginning to end. It disappears into another, crosses a third, and then seems to contradict everything I have already understood.

The effect is strangely exhausting.

There is also a second pattern, although I cannot always distinguish it clearly. It appears in a slightly different shade and is visible only under certain conditions. When the light falls across the wall at a particular angle, I catch a glimpse of something behind the obvious design.

It has no definite shape. It seems to be a shadow, or perhaps a figure whose outline has been obscured by the elaborate pattern in front of it.

I cannot be certain that I have seen anything at all.

Nevertheless, I find myself returning to the same places on the wall, waiting for the light to change and reveal whatever I thought I saw before.

Whenever I hear footsteps on the stairs, I put away my writing. John’s sister, Jennie, is an enthusiastic housekeeper who seems entirely satisfied with domestic work. She is kind to me and takes great care of the household.

I suspect that she believes writing has contributed to my illness. She would probably consider it much healthier for me to spend my time resting or watching her manage the house.

I do not blame her for this opinion. She is following the advice John has given her, just as I am expected to follow it myself.

Still, I prefer to write when she is elsewhere.

The strange second pattern has begun to interest me more than the first. Its appearance is so uncertain that I cannot decide whether it is produced by the design itself or by the changing light.

Sometimes it seems to bend forward. At other times, it appears to withdraw into the wall.

I have tried to describe it to myself in precise terms, but every description feels inadequate. The figure, if it is a figure, remains indistinct, as though it were deliberately concealing itself.

I am determined to discover what I am seeing.

Perhaps the effort will give me something useful to think about. Perhaps it will distract me from the endless discussions of my health, in which my own opinion seems to count for so little.

For now, I shall keep my observations to myself.

There is no reason to invite another lecture about the dangers of imagination.

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Chapter Three

The Growing Obsession

The Fourth of July has passed, and our visitors have gone. John thought that a little company might improve my spirits, so we invited my mother, Nellie, and the children to stay for a week.

I did not have to make any arrangements myself. Jennie took care of everything, as she usually does. Nevertheless, the visit exhausted me. Even pleasant conversation requires an effort when one feels obliged to appear cheerful.

I tried to participate as much as I could, but I was relieved when everyone left.

John has begun to speak of sending me to Dr. Weir Mitchell in the autumn if I do not improve more quickly. The prospect fills me with dread. I have a friend who underwent his treatment, and she told me that his methods resemble John’s, only carried to a greater extreme.

Besides, the journey would be difficult, and I cannot imagine how another physician’s authority would help me when I already struggle to make my own experience understood.

I am becoming increasingly irritable. I cry over things that would once have seemed insignificant, although I take care not to do so in front of John or Jennie. When I am alone, however, the tears come easily and sometimes continue for no reason I can identify.

John is often away in town, where his medical work keeps him occupied, and Jennie has learned to leave me alone when I ask her to. I spend a little time walking in the garden, sitting beneath the roses on the veranda, or resting in the nursery.

I am beginning to feel attached to the room despite the wallpaper—or perhaps because of it.

The pattern occupies my thoughts so completely that I can scarcely remember what I used to think about before we came here. I lie on the great bed for hours, tracing its lines with my eyes and attempting to discover some order in their arrangement.

I understand enough about design to recognise that this pattern follows no consistent principle. It has no convincing symmetry, no orderly progression, and no clear relationship between its various parts.

Each section seems to possess a separate life, yet the sections also connect diagonally, creating long, slanting movements that appear to sweep across the wall. The effect is like a mass of seaweed twisting in restless water.

There are horizontal lines as well, although I can never quite determine where they begin or end. The more carefully I examine the design, the less certain I become about its structure.

Occasionally, when the sunlight falls directly upon one end of the room, the whole arrangement seems almost orderly. The strange shapes appear to gather around a common centre before rushing away in different directions.

Then the light changes, and the illusion disappears.

I find the process fascinating, although it leaves me tired. I often close my eyes for a few minutes, intending to rest, only to discover that I am thinking about the wallpaper again.

Writing has become difficult, too. I still feel that putting my thoughts on paper might relieve the pressure inside my mind, but the effort required to keep my work secret has grown almost greater than the relief it provides.

Sometimes I can scarcely persuade myself to begin.

John insists that I must preserve my strength. He gives me cod-liver oil, tonics, and rich food, including meat, ale, and wine. He is sincerely pleased whenever I eat well, and I know that he worries about me.

I wish I could make him understand that nourishment and rest are not the only things I need.

The other day, I tried to have a serious conversation with him. I explained that I wanted to visit our cousins, Henry and Julia, because I believed a change of company might do me good.

He refused. He said that I was not strong enough to travel and would probably find the visit exhausting even if I managed to reach them.

I tried to defend my position, but before I had finished speaking, I began to cry.

John gathered me into his arms, carried me upstairs, and laid me on the bed. He sat beside me and read aloud until the sound of his voice became almost as tiring as my own thoughts.

He told me that I was his darling, his comfort, and everything he had. For his sake, as well as for the baby’s and my own, I must take care of myself.

He insisted that only I could help myself recover. I must exercise my will, control my emotions, and refuse to allow foolish ideas to take possession of my mind.

I said nothing more. I was too exhausted to continue.

The conversation left me feeling both loved and defeated. John seemed unable to recognise that his kindness, however sincere, could not replace the freedom to decide what might help me.

I have begun to suspect that I am not improving as he believes. Perhaps I am merely becoming better at concealing my distress.

Yet something has changed.

The wallpaper no longer seems quite so unbearable when I concentrate on it. Instead, it has become the centre of a private investigation, one that gives me something to anticipate when the rest of the day offers so little.

I have discovered that the second pattern is more noticeable when the light fades. Beneath the elaborate outer design, a shadow appears to gather itself into a recognisable form.

It is like a woman, bent forward, moving as though she were trying to creep along behind the pattern.

At first I dismissed the impression as another trick of the light. But the shape has returned so often that I find it increasingly difficult to ignore.

The woman, if that is what she is, appears to be trapped.

I do not understand how a figure could exist within a pattern of wallpaper. I know how absurd the idea would sound if I said it aloud. Nevertheless, I find myself watching the wall with an attention I can no longer control.

Sometimes I wish John would take me away from the house. I have begun to feel that staying here is doing me no good, and I want to tell him so again.

But I know what he will say. He will remind me that he is a physician, that he understands my condition, and that I must trust his judgment.

It is difficult to argue with someone who regards disagreement as evidence that his advice is necessary.

Last night, the moonlight entered the room while John slept beside me. It spread slowly across the wallpaper, changing the appearance of the pattern until I could scarcely recognise it.

I lay still and watched.

The figure behind the outer design seemed to move. The pattern appeared to tremble, as though something on the other side were pressing against it.

I rose quietly and crossed the room to examine the wall more closely. When I returned, John was awake.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked. “You must not wander about like that. You will catch cold.”

I took the opportunity to tell him that I did not believe I was getting better and that I wanted to leave the house.

He was surprised.

“Our lease has only three weeks to run,” he said. “The repairs at home are not finished, and I cannot leave my patients just now. If I thought you were in danger, I would take you away immediately. But you are improving, whether you realise it or not.”

He pointed out that I had gained colour and that my appetite seemed better.

I told him that I had not gained weight and that my appetite was worse in the morning, when he was away, than in the evening, when he returned.

He embraced me and said that I might be as ill as I pleased, provided I stopped worrying about it. Then he urged me to sleep and promised that we would discuss everything again in the morning.

“Better in body, perhaps,” I began.

He sat up and looked at me with such stern disappointment that I could not continue.

“My darling,” he said, “for my sake, for the baby’s sake, and for your own, do not allow that idea to enter your mind. Nothing is more dangerous for someone in your condition. You must trust me when I tell you that you are getting better.”

I said no more.

After a while, he fell asleep. I remained awake for hours, trying to determine whether the outer pattern and the shadow beneath it moved together or separately.

The question seemed simple enough. Yet the longer I considered it, the more elusive the answer became.

By daylight, the wallpaper appeared almost ordinary, though its ugliness was as disturbing as ever. At night, however, the outer design changed into something resembling bars, and the woman behind it became far more distinct.

I could no longer convince myself that I had imagined the entire thing.

The woman was there, waiting behind the pattern.

And I had begun to wonder what she wanted.

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Chapter Four

The Woman Behind the Pattern

I have discovered that the wallpaper changes its appearance according to the light, and this discovery has made it impossible for me to leave it alone.

In the early morning, when the first long ray of sunlight enters through the eastern window, the pattern seems to shift before my eyes. I watch it carefully, yet I can never quite determine what has changed. By the time I think I understand its arrangement, the light has moved, and the design has become something else.

At night, the transformation is even more remarkable.

The outer pattern becomes a series of bars, dark and unmistakable, while the figure behind it emerges with a clarity that is absent during the day. I can no longer see her merely as a vague shadow. She appears to be a woman, imprisoned behind the tangled lines and struggling to move.

In daylight, she remains quiet. It is as though the pattern holds her still, preventing her from making any effort to escape. I sometimes feel that I understand her condition because I, too, spend so much time confined to this room, obeying instructions about when to rest, when to eat, and how much activity I am permitted.

But I must be careful about such comparisons. John has repeatedly warned me against allowing my imagination to run away with me.

I have begun to lie down after every meal, following the routine he prescribed. He believes that sleep and rest are essential to my recovery, although I rarely sleep when I am supposed to. I lie quietly with my eyes closed, listening to the house and waiting for the opportunity to return to my observations.

The habit has made me secretive. I do not tell John that I am awake, because I know he would disapprove. Instead, I pretend to rest while my thoughts continue to move from one detail of the wallpaper to another.

I am beginning to feel uneasy around him.

There are moments when his manner seems strange, although I cannot say precisely why. Jennie, too, occasionally looks at me in a way I find difficult to interpret. I wonder whether they have noticed something about my behaviour that they have not yet mentioned.

Or perhaps the wallpaper has affected them as well.

I have caught John examining it when he believed I was not looking. On several occasions, I entered the room unexpectedly and found him studying the walls with an expression I could not understand.

Jennie has done the same thing.

Once, I found her standing close to the wallpaper with her hand resting against it. She turned abruptly when I spoke, looking almost guilty.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She seemed annoyed that I had startled her. Then she explained that the wallpaper left yellow marks on everything it touched. She had discovered stains on our clothes and wanted us to be more careful.

Her explanation was perfectly reasonable. Nevertheless, I felt certain that she had been examining the pattern.

Why should she be interested in it unless she had noticed something unusual?

I have decided that neither John nor Jennie must discover what I have found. If the woman is really there, I cannot risk allowing them to interfere before I understand what is happening.

This private purpose has given my days a new kind of excitement. I find that I eat more willingly and that I am quieter when John is present. He is delighted by the apparent improvement.

“You seem to be flourishing in spite of that dreadful wallpaper,” he remarked recently.

I laughed and pretended to agree.

I did not tell him that the wallpaper was the very thing keeping me interested in life. If he understood how much attention I gave it, he might insist that we leave the house before I had discovered the truth.

There is still a week before our departure, and I believe that will be enough.

I no longer sleep much at night. The changing pattern is too interesting to ignore, and I am afraid that I might miss something important if I close my eyes.

During the day, I sometimes sleep for hours, exhausted by the previous night’s observations. When I wake, I return to the wall and begin again.

There seem to be new shapes every time I look. Strange, branching forms appear to grow from the larger design, and the yellow itself changes in countless subtle ways. I have tried to count the different shades, but the task is impossible.

The colour is unlike any yellow I have known. It reminds me not of flowers or sunlight, but of old, neglected things that have been left to decay.

There is another feature that has begun to disturb me: the smell.

I noticed it when we first entered the room, although the abundance of fresh air made it bearable. Now, after several days of damp weather, the odour has become difficult to escape. It lingers whether the windows are open or closed.

At first I thought it came from the wallpaper itself. Then I began to notice it elsewhere in the house.

It seems to hover in the dining room, linger in the parlour, and hide in the hallway. Sometimes I detect it on the stairs, and sometimes I feel that it has followed me into another room before I have had time to settle.

Even when I go out for a ride, I occasionally catch the smell if I turn my head suddenly.

It is not immediately offensive. Its peculiar quality lies in its persistence. Once I notice it, I cannot forget it, and I find myself trying to identify what it resembles.

The only comparison I can make is with the colour of the wallpaper itself. Somehow, the smell seems yellow.

I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I cannot think of a better description.

Near the floor, just above the wooden moulding, I have also discovered a long mark that runs around the room. It passes behind the furniture, continuing in a narrow, even line, except where the bed interrupts its course.

It looks as though something has been rubbed against the wall repeatedly.

I cannot imagine what might have caused it, but I have spent a considerable amount of time examining it.

Then, at last, I understood something about the pattern.

The outer design really does move.

Or, at least, it appears to move because the woman behind it is shaking it.

I have watched her struggle so often that I can scarcely believe I failed to understand it before. She pushes against the bars, twists beneath the tangled lines, and tries to force her way through.

Sometimes I think there are many women behind the pattern. At other times, I am certain there is only one, moving so quickly that I cannot follow her.

In the darker parts of the wall, she seems to seize the bars and shake them with all her strength. In the brighter places, she becomes still, as though exhausted by her efforts.

The pattern will not allow her to escape. Its lines twist around her, catching and distorting her shape. Wherever she tries to pass through, the design seems to close upon her.

I feel a strange mixture of fear and sympathy as I watch.

The woman appears desperate, yet she continues to struggle. Whatever holds her there has not entirely defeated her.

I have begun to wonder whether she is able to leave the wall when the room is filled with daylight.

The thought would once have seemed absurd, but I can no longer dismiss it so easily.

I have seen her outside.

At first, I noticed a figure moving along the shaded lane beneath the trees. She seemed to bend close to the ground, creeping through the shadows whenever a carriage approached. Later, I saw what appeared to be the same figure among the grape-covered arbors and near the blackberry vines.

She moved in the same peculiar manner each time.

I cannot explain how I know it is the same woman. I simply recognise her.

Perhaps she is trying to escape the house without being seen. I do not blame her. There must be something humiliating about being discovered creeping along in broad daylight.

I have begun to lock the nursery door when I move about the room. At night, I cannot risk doing so, because John might become suspicious if he found himself unable to enter.

I do not want him to discover what I am doing.

Nor do I want anyone else to interfere with the woman.

I sometimes wonder whether I could see her through every window at once. If I turned quickly enough, perhaps I could follow her movements around the grounds. But each window offers only one view, and I cannot turn my head fast enough to see everything.

The woman seems to move more quickly than I can.

If only I could remove the outer pattern without damaging whatever lies beneath it. Then perhaps I could understand how she moves, and perhaps I could help her escape.

I have decided to begin removing the paper, little by little.

There is no reason to tell anyone about my plan. I have learned that people cannot always be trusted with what one knows.

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Chapter Five

The Last Days

Only two days remain before we are due to leave the house, and I believe John has begun to suspect that something is wrong.

He watches me more closely than before. I do not like the expression in his eyes, although he continues to speak in his usual affectionate manner.

I overheard him asking Jennie a number of questions about me. She told him that I slept a great deal during the day, which was true enough, though she could not have known how little I slept at night.

John questioned me as well. He seemed particularly interested in my appetite, my strength, and the amount of rest I was getting.

I answered as carefully as I could.

I know he believes that I am improving. He has no reason to suspect how completely my attention has been taken over by the wallpaper, because I have become very good at concealing my thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder whether John himself has been affected by the room. He has spent almost as much time here as I have, and I cannot imagine how anyone could examine that pattern repeatedly without feeling its influence.

Jennie, too, seems unusually interested in the walls.

Still, neither of them understands what I have discovered. I must finish my work before they have an opportunity to interfere.

Today is the final day.

John has to remain in town overnight, and he will not return until the evening. Jennie suggested that she sleep in the nursery with me, but I told her that I would rest better if I were left alone.

I think she suspected that I was hiding something. Nevertheless, she accepted my explanation and went downstairs.

I waited until the moonlight entered the room.

Then I rose from the bed and approached the wall.

The woman was there, as I knew she would be, struggling behind the outer pattern. I could see the bars and the tangled shapes that seemed to hold her in place.

I began to pull at the wallpaper.

At first, the paper resisted. It clung stubbornly to the wall, and I could remove only small pieces. But the more I pulled, the more I felt that I was helping the woman with her own efforts.

I pulled while she seemed to shake the pattern. She shook while I tore at it. Together, we worked through the night.

By morning, I had removed long strips of paper, including a section that extended almost halfway around the room.

The exposed wall looked strangely bare. Yet the remaining pattern seemed to mock me, its absurd curves and distorted shapes appearing even more unpleasant in the bright sunlight.

I had not finished.

I told myself that I would complete the task before we left the house. There was no reason to delay now, when I had come so close to freeing the woman.

Jennie came upstairs later and stared at the damaged walls in astonishment.

I laughed and told her that I had torn the paper off because I could no longer tolerate it.

She seemed amused by the explanation and said that she would have been happy to remove it herself. But she also warned me not to exhaust myself.

I could not help noticing the contradiction. She had spent weeks treating the wallpaper as an insignificant nuisance, yet now she seemed almost relieved to see it coming away from the wall.

Perhaps I had misunderstood her interest in it. Perhaps not.

She tried to persuade me to leave the room, but I told her that I wanted to lie down and rest. The room was quieter now, I explained, and I thought I might finally sleep.

I asked her not to wake me for dinner.

Once she had gone, I locked the door.

The servants had begun moving our belongings downstairs, preparing the house for our departure. The furniture had been removed, leaving the great bed as the only substantial object in the room.

I was pleased to see the nursery so empty. It reminded me of how it must have looked before the children damaged it, although the floor and walls still bore the marks of their earlier occupation.

The bed was as immovable as ever. I tried to shift it, but it would not move.

I had to abandon the attempt.

There was still much wallpaper to remove, and I had no intention of leaving the room before the work was complete.

I found a rope that Jennie had not discovered. I placed it where I could reach it easily, thinking that if the woman managed to escape from the wall, I would have to prevent her from running away.

I did not want her to disappear before I had a chance to understand what had happened.

The thought of losing her filled me with a determination I had not felt for a long time.

For months, I had been told to rest, to remain quiet, and to trust the judgment of others. Now, at last, I had something to do that seemed entirely my own.

I would finish what I had begun.

The afternoon passed slowly. I pulled away every strip I could reach, working around the room until my arms ached. The paper came away reluctantly, and the pattern seemed more grotesque with every section I removed.

Those distorted shapes, the swollen eyes, and the tangled lines appeared to resist me. I imagined them laughing at my efforts, as though they knew that I could never remove enough of the paper to reach the woman beneath.

But I continued.

I had come too far to stop now.

When I had removed everything within reach, I looked around the room and realised that I needed a way to reach the higher sections.

The bed would not move, and I had nothing suitable to stand upon. I tried again to push it away from the wall, but it remained fixed in place.

Frustration overcame me. I pushed harder, then struck the frame with my hands until I could no longer continue.

For a moment, I felt an overwhelming desire to do something desperate. I thought of the barred windows and wondered whether I could escape through one of them, but the bars were too strong.

Besides, I would not do such a thing. It would be improper, and people might misunderstand my reasons.

I turned away from the windows.

There were too many women outside, moving along the ground in their peculiar, hurried manner. I did not want to join them.

I wondered whether they had all come from the wallpaper, as I had.

The thought seemed perfectly reasonable to me, although I could not have explained it to anyone else.

I looked at the long mark running around the lower wall. It followed the room in an unbroken line, passing behind the furniture and continuing around the corners.

My shoulder fitted against it as I moved along the wall. It seemed to guide me, showing me where to go and preventing me from losing my way.

I began to understand why the woman had been able to move around the room so quickly.

There was a path for her.

There was a path for me, too.

I no longer wanted to leave the nursery. Outside, the world was green and open, but it offered none of the strange freedom I had discovered here. The floor was smooth beneath my hands and knees, and the walls gave me something to follow.

I could move as I pleased.

For the first time in a long while, I felt that I had escaped the restrictions imposed upon me.

I was not going to let anyone take that freedom away.

---

Chapter Six

At Last, I Am Out

I have locked the door, and I have thrown the key down into the front path. No one will enter the room until John returns, and I have no intention of leaving before then.

I want to surprise him.

There is still paper to remove, and I shall continue working until the room is as bare as I can make it. The rope is ready if I need it. If the woman manages to escape, I must be able to prevent her from disappearing.

I tried once more to move the bed, but it remained fixed in place. I pushed and pulled until I was exhausted, then bit at one corner in a fit of frustration. The wood hurt my teeth, and I had to stop.

There was nothing for it but to continue tearing the wallpaper from the wall.

I removed every piece I could reach while standing on the floor. The paper resisted me, and the pattern seemed to take pleasure in my difficulty. The distorted heads and swollen eyes appeared to laugh at my efforts.

I was becoming angry enough to do something reckless.

The barred windows prevented me from climbing out, and I knew that I would not attempt it even if I could. I had no wish to leave the room. There were too many creeping women outside, and I could not bear the thought of moving through the grass with them.

Besides, I had almost finished my work.

I was securely fastened with my rope, and no one would be able to take me away without my permission.

I wondered whether I would have to return behind the pattern when night came. The thought distressed me, because I had grown accustomed to moving freely around the room.

I did not want to go back.

It was so pleasant to creep along the walls, following the narrow mark that ran around the room. My shoulder fitted against it perfectly, and I could move without losing my direction.

Outside, everything was green. Here, everything was yellow.

I preferred the yellow.

Then I heard John at the door.

He called my name and tried the handle, but the door would not open. He called again, this time more urgently, and began pounding against the wood.

I continued moving along the wall.

He shouted that he wanted me to open the door. When I did not answer, I heard him calling for an axe.

It seemed a shame that he should break down such a beautiful door.

“John, dear,” I said as gently as I could, “the key is down by the front steps, beneath a plantain leaf.”

For a few moments, he was silent.

Then he spoke again, his voice quieter than before.

“Open the door, my darling.”

“I cannot,” I replied. “The key is beneath the plantain leaf by the front door.”

I repeated the words several times, slowly and patiently, until he finally went downstairs to find the key.

When he returned and opened the door, he stopped abruptly.

“What is the matter?” he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing?”

I continued creeping around the room, moving past the torn wallpaper and the bare sections of wall. I looked at him over my shoulder.

“I’ve got out at last,” I told him. “In spite of you and Jennie! And I’ve torn away most of the paper, so you cannot put me back!”

John stared at me.

Then he fainted, falling across my path beside the wall.

I had no choice but to continue moving. The narrow track ran straight past him, and I could not leave it without losing my way.

So I crept over him every time I passed.

— The End —

Read the original story: americanliterature.com

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

Answer Key

1-A, 2-C, 3-B, 4-C, 5-C, 6-C, 7-B, 8-A, 9-C, 10-C, 11-A, 12-B, 13-B, 14-C, 15-C, 16-C, 17-C, 18-B, 19-D, 20-A

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