craving for companionship, the hopelessness of relief were what I
should dread to feel again."


Or again, in a somewhat calmer mood, she writes:


"I feel to my deep sorrow, to my humiliation, that it is not in my
power to bear the canker of constant solitude. I had calculated
that when shut out from every enjoyment, from every stimulus but
what could be desired from intellectual exertion, my mind would
rouse itself perforce. It is not so. Even intellect, even
imagination will not dispense with the ray of domestic
cheerfulness, with the gentle spur of family discussions. Late in
the evening and all through the nights, I fall into a condition of
mind which turns entirely to the past--to memory, and memory is
both sad and relentless. This will never do, and will produce no
good. I tell you this that you may check false anticipations. You
cannot help me, and must not trouble yourself in any shape to
sympathise with me. It is my cup, and I must drink it as others do
theirs."


It would be difficult to create a picture of more poignant
suffering; yet she was at this time a famous writer. She had
published Jane Eyre and Shirley, and on her visits to London, to
her hospitable publisher, had found herself welcomed, honoured,
feted. The great lions of the literary world had flocked eagerly to
meet her. Even these simple festivities were accompanied by a
deadly sense of strain, anxiety, and exhaustion. Mrs. Gaskell