Once she had gone, depression began to creep in. Anxious to keep it at bay, and remembering how her work had been her saviour through the dark days of the previous year, Charlotte attempted to make a start on her next novel. Without her almost visionary imaginative power to aid her, however, the words, the characters, the scenes would not come and she abandoned the effort after two or three attempts.1 Charlotte’s gloom was not helped by an unaccountable silence from Smith, Elder & Co. Now that the publication of Shirley was out of the way and her visit was over, there was really no need for a continuation of the correspondence except as a token of friendship. The complete absence of letters for over a month was therefore both galling and distressing and Charlotte was very much ashamed to discover how dependent upon their stimulus she had become. Day after day she waited for the post with rising expectation, only to have her hopes dashed once more. ‘This is a stupid, disgraceful, unmeaning state of things –’, she wrote angrily to Ellen, ‘I feel bitterly enraged at my own dependence and folly – It is so bad for the mind to be quite alone – to have none with whom to talk over little crosses and disappointments and laugh them away.
