I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs atme so about this wall-paper！
At first he meant to repaper the room， but afterwards he saidthat I was letting it get the better of me， and that nothing wasworse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would bethe heavy bedstead， and then the barred windows， and thenthat gate at the head of the stairs， and so on.
“You know the place is doing you good，” he said， “andreally， dear， I don’t care to renovate the house just for a threemonths’ rental.”
“Then do let us go downstairs，” I said， “there are such prettyrooms there.”
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed littlegoose， and said he would go down to the cellar， if I wished，and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows andthings.
It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish，and， of course， I would not be so silly as to make himuncomfortable just for a whim.
I’m really getting quite fond of the big room， all but thathorrid paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden， those mysteriousdeepshaded arbors， the riotous old-fashioned flowers， andbushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a littleprivate wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautifulshaded lane that runs down there from the house. I alwaysfancy I see people walking in these numerous paths andarbors， but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy inthe least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit ofstory-making， a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead toall manner of excited fancies， and that I ought to use my willand good sense to check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write alittle 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 companionshipabout my work. When I get really well， John says we will askCousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit； but he says hewould as soon put fireworks in my pillow-case as to let mehave 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 ifit KNEW what a vicious influence it had！
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a brokenneck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and theeverlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl， andthose absurd， unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is oneplace where two breadths didn’t match， and the eyes go all upand 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 lieawake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out ofblank walls and plain furniture than most children could find ina toy store.
I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big， oldbureau used to have， and there was one chair that alwaysseemed like a strong friend.
I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierceI 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 supposewhen this was used as a playroom they had to take the nurserythings out， and no wonder！ I never saw such ravages as thechildren have made here.
The wall-paper， as I said before， is torn off in spots，and it sticketh closer than a brother—they must have hadperseverance as well as hatred.
Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered， theplaster itself is dug out here and there， and this great heavybed which is all we found in the room， looks as if it had beenthrough 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 socareful of me！ I must not let her find me writing.
She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper， and hopes forno better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writingwhich made me sick！
But I can write when she is out， and see her a long way offfrom these windows.
There is one that commands the road， a lovely shadedwinding road， and one that just looks off over the country. Alovely country， too， full of great elms and velvet meadows.
This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a differentshade， a particularly irritating one， for you can only see it incertain lights， and not clearly then.
But in the places where it isn’t faded and where the sun isjust so—I can see a strange， provoking， formless sort of figure，that seems to skulk about behind that silly and conspicuousfront design.
There’s sister on the stairs！
Well， the Fourth of July is over！ The people are gone and Iam tired out. John thought it might do me good to see a littlecompany， so we just had mother and Nellie and the childrendown 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 WeirMitchell in the fall.
But I don’t want to go there at all. I had a friend who wasin his hands once， and she says he is just like John and mybrother， 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 foranything， 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， butwhen I am alone.
And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in townvery often by serious cases， and Jennie is good and lets mealone when I want her to.
So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane， siton 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 wall-paper.
Perhaps BECAUSE of the wall-paper.
It dwells in my mind so！