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bed of suffering, and to abandon all thought of
pleasure and refreshment.
All her letters this summer show how depressed
her spirits were.
‘My sister continues in the same state as last
winter; she suffers much, looks dreadfully
miserable, and has no strength to move, and yet I do
not think she is quite without hope of recovery.
She is so glad that I have come, and keeps
saying that she should certainly have died if I had
refused to come to her now.
‘I am so low to-day, that I will not write any
more. The only thing enjoyable to think of is
our fairy world and Væ Victis. . . .’
These words refer to two new plans for
collaboration, which we had formed in the course
of the spring.
In a later letter, she writes:
‘I try to work again now, and in every free
moment, I think of my mathematical problem,
or I meditate on Poincaré’s essays. I have not
spirit enough for literary work—everything
seems so dull and uninteresting. I prefer
mathematics under these circumstances. It is pleasant
to enter into a world quite outside one’s self, and
to speak of impersonal subjects. Only you, my
dear, my unique Ann Charlotte, are always the
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