Nothing the matter, and yet everything the matter! I plough on
drearily enough, like a vessel forging slowly ahead against a
strong, ugly, muddy stream. I seem to gain nothing, neither hope,
patience, nor strength. My spirit revolted at first, but now I have
lost the heart even for that: I simply bear my burden and wait. One
tends to think, at such times, that no one has ever passed through
a similar experience before; and the isolation in which one moves
is the hardest part of it all. Alone, and cut off even from God! If
one felt that one was learning something, gaining power or courage,
one could bear it cheerfully; but I feel rather as though all my
vitality and moral strength was being pressed and drained from me.
Yet I do not desire death and silence. I rather crave for life and
light.

No, I am not describing my state fairly. At times I have a sense
that something, some power, some great influence, is trying to
communicate with me, to deliver me some message. There are many
hours when it is not so, when my nerveless brain seems losing its
hold, slipping off into some dark confusion of sense. Yet again
there are other moments, when sights and sounds have an
overpowering and awful significance; when the gleams of some
tremendous secret seemed flashed upon my mind, at the sight of the
mist-hung valley with its leafless woods and level water-meadows;
the flaring pomp of sunset hung low in the west over the bare
ploughland or the wide-watered plain; the wailing of the wind round
the firelit house; the faint twitter of awakening birds in the ivy;
the voice and smile of my children; the music breaking the silence
of the house at evening. In a moment the sensation comes over me,
that the sound or sight is sent not vaguely or lightly, but
deliberately shown to me, for some great purpose, if I could but