Whereas he mentally constructs her so as to answer to his emotional needs, she regards him merely ‘as her mother's friend… [and] hardly ever thought of him when he was absent' (p. 113); she does not think of him as a lover at all – ‘her ideal husband was different from Philip in every point, the two images never for an instant merged into one' (p. 121). The portrayal of their marriage, the result of Sylvia's final volitionless accession to Philip's overmastering will, highlights the narrative's concern with failure of communication and ideological entrapment. Mutual misunderstandings proliferate: Philip's reluctance to address Sylvia on deeply intimate matters means that he remains ignorant of her real emotions, while, conversely, when he leaves his wife and Kester alone to talk of old times, ‘Sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to expand towards him' (p. 315).

The extradiegetic narrational voice in the text (that is, the commentary which operates on a level ‘above' the events of the story) calls attention to these apparently unbridgeable gaps between people by foregrounding the silences and misconceptions. Knowledge and understanding is articulated only by this voice, thus stressing the impotency of individuals to speak for themselves. In the scene in which Kinraid comes to court Sylvia, for instance, the series of conditional and qualifying statements emanating from a position of omniscience (‘could she but have perceived it’; ‘but… he could not see’; ‘she wondered if' (p. 179)) reinforces the idea that even between these two lovers miscomprehension does – and will – exist. The failure to negotiate the distance between self and the other can, it is suggested, create a state of tragic isolation, with terrible consequences.

The themes of isolation and entrapment are shown to be of specific relevance to women, whose articulacy is especially hampered by the conflict between selfhood and outer circumstances or ideologies. Sylvia herself, the product of a conflictual dual inheritance (‘male' passion from her father, ‘female' submissiveness from her mother), suffers the dichotomy between the romantic and sexual emotions aroused in her by Kinraid and her sense of duty which tells her to respond positively to Philip's unwelcome attentions; her feelings of helplessness in the face of determining conditions compound her impotence. Hester experiences a similar irresolvable dichotomy. She, too, is denied outlet for her hopeless desire, though while Sylvia's despair threatens her mental stability, the former's ‘crav[ing] for the affection which had been withheld from her' (p. 316) is suppressed as ‘her own private rebellion' is converted ‘into submission' (p. 378). Because she has more successfully internalized the code of womanly obedience and acceptance of non-fulfilment, Hester ostensibly copes better than Sylvia with her disappointment, transforming the impulses of thwarted desire into angelic ministration. But her suffering is no less, and the final scene of the novel merely emphasizes her continuing experience of denial and negation.

It would be wrong to imply, however, that this is a wholly deterministic or pessimistic novel. Although Gaskell called it ‘the saddest story I ever wrote’,22 her belief in the mediating as well as the disruptive powers of human consciousness drew her to a final harmonizing vision. As the narrative demonstrates, reconciliation between individuals can occur, though only when preconceptions are dismantled and the selfness of others is recognized and accommodated. Hester and Sylvia, brought to awareness of their mutual suffering, are united by the acknowledgement that for them as women loss and lack are inherent conditions. The support they give to each other in this awareness is made possible only by their respective revised visions. Interestingly, their relationship in this regard is reminiscent of that between Dinah Morris and Hetty Sorrel in Eliot's Adam Bede, which, as has already been pointed out, Gaskell read while in Whitby. Like Dinah, Hester rejects an undesired suitor, and watches the man she loves (though Dinah's love for Adam is of much more gradual growth) court the childish, wilful and petted darling of all around; finally conquering her antipathy towards her, she comforts and helps her. Similarly, Sylvia turns in her need to the woman whom she has always regarded as uncongenial and insignificant, though the ensuing relationship is deeper than that between Hetty and Dinah, confined to Hetty's prison confession and pitiful last-minute clinging to her previously despised cousin.

The reconciliation between Sylvia and Philip is also dependent on a process of readjustment and self-evaluation, as well as on the erosion of gender difference. Ironically, this process is begun in Sylvia by her instinctive resistance to external confirmation of her husband's treachery: Jeremiah Foster's acquiescence in her accusations against ‘men and their cruel, deceitful ways' (p. 374), when she reveals her secret to him – like Kester's in a later scene – impels her to reconsider her judgement of Philip, the start of a change which leads her to unsay her vengeful vow (‘“I'll never forgive yon man”’ (p. 348)) and to recognize her own need for forgiveness. The final union between husband and wife is based on their avowals of mutual guilt and on their awareness of responsibility for the tragedy of their lives. The text refuses to prioritize a facile optimism here. Even though this earthly harmony is redemptive, it is temporary, and though it is ultimately incorporated into a vision of divine love, a place in which ‘there is no more sorrow, and no more pain' (p.