Frederick was finally finished in January 1865 and published in March. Whether it was worth the suffering it caused is hard to say. Certainly it is somewhat reminiscent of Rossini’s catty remark about Wagner’s operas, with their ‘wonderful moments separated by terrible half hours’, in which Thomas presents the abysmal quality of his sources as an index of intellectual futility rather than gets on with his story—itself of limited interest to non-German readers (admired as it was by Thomas Mann). The book as a whole was last in print in 1930, and even Ruskin’s behemoths, Modern Painters (1843–1860) and Fors Clavigera (1871–1884), probably have more to offer the modern reader, overall.

But the nightmare was over and relief set in, to be accompanied in due course by moods of post-natal depression and fitfulness. Jane’s overall health improved, though punctuated by colds: she could walk more and enjoyed her long London afternoon drives in the carriage Thomas had bought for her. But her arm remained stiff and sore and eventually she had to train herself to write with her left hand as her neurological problems moved into her right arm and hand. In March 1865 she and Thomas even went so far as to holiday together, at the dowager Lady Ashburton’s seaside place, Seaforth Lodge, near Seaton, east Devon (still standing, but subdivided into flats). Her capacity for revival glowed out as she wrote to Mary Russell on 10 March: