By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John andmyself secure ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion， a hereditary estate， I would say ahaunted house， and reach the height of romantic felicity—butthat would be asking too much of fate！
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queerabout it.
Else， why should it be let so cheaply？ And why have stoodso long untenanted？
John laughs at me， of course， but one expects that inmarriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience withfaith， an intense horror of superstition， and he scoffs openlyat any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down infigures.
John is a physician， and PERHAPS—（I would not say it to aliving soul， of course， but this is dead paper and a great reliefto my mind）—PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get wellfaster.
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 thematter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slighthysterical 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， andtonics， and journeys， and air， and exercise， and am absolutelyforbidden to “work” until I am well again.
Personally， I disagree with their ideas.
Personally， I believe that congenial work， with excitementand change， would do me good.
But what is one to do？
I did write for a while in spite of them； but it DOES exhaustme a good deal—having to be so sly about it， or else meet withheavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had lessopposition and more society and stimulus—but John says thevery worst thing I can do is to think about my condition， and Iconfess 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 wellback from the road， quite three miles from the village. It makesme think of English places that you read about， for there arehedges and walls and gates that lock， and lots of separate littlehouses 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 withlong 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 theheirs and coheirs； 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 saidwhat I felt was a DRAUGHT， and shut the window.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure Inever used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervouscondition.
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 thatmakes me very tired.
I don’t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs thatopened on the piazza and had roses all over the window， andsuch pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings！ but John would nothear of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for twobeds， and no near room for him if he took another.
He is very careful and loving， and hardly lets me stir withoutspecial direction.
I have a schedule preion for each hour in the day； hetakes all care from me， and so I feel basely ungrateful not tovalue it more.
He said we came here solely on my account， that I was tohave perfect rest and all the air I could get. “Your exercisedepends on your strength， my dear，” said he， “and your foodsomewhat on your appetite； but air you can absorb all thetime.” So we took the nursery at the top of the house.
It is a big， airy room， the whole floor nearly， with windowsthat look all ways， and air and sunshine galore. It was nurseryfirst and then playroom and gymnasium， I should judge； forthe windows are barred for little children， and there are ringsand 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 thehead of my bed， about as far as I can reach， and in a greatplace on the other side of the room low down. I never saw aworse paper in my life.
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committingevery artistic sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following， pronouncedenough to constantly irritate and provoke study， and whenyou follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance theysuddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles，destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.
The color is repellent， almost revolting； a smoulderingunclean yellow， strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places， a sickly sulphurtint in others.
No wonder the children hated it！ I should hate it myself if Ihad to live in this room long.
There comes John， and I must put this away，—he hates tohave me write a word.
We have been here two weeks， and I haven’t felt like writingbefore， 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 casesare 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 knowsthere is no REASON to suffer， and that satisfies him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so notto do my duty in any way！
I meant to be such a help to John， such a real rest andcomfort， and here I am a comparative burden already！
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little Iam able，—to dress and entertain， and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dearbaby！
And yet I CANNOT be with him， it makes me so nervous.