Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson led a remarkably eventful life, rich in travel, experiences, and encounters—so much so that it could be considered enviable even by today’s standards. Yet from an early age, her life was touched by tragedies. Her mother, Elizabeth Holland, died when Gaskell was just one year old. The following year, her kind-hearted cousin, Mary Anne Lumb, offered to adopt the orphaned child. Yet this act of generosity was never fulfilled: Mary Anne passed away on the very day she was to visit the notary to formalise the adoption.

Gaskell’s early years were marked by deep loneliness. Already twice motherless, her sense of abandonment grew when her father remarried and started a new family, from which Elizabeth was excluded. Her only and deeply beloved brother, John Stevenson, would be lost at sea during a voyage to India in 1828. In fact, though Gaskell had been born into a large family with seven older siblings, John was the only one who had survived childhood besides her. The misfortunes continued: her father died of a stroke, reportedly brought on by the shock of John’s disappearance. In 1833, Gaskell gave birth to her first child, a daughter who was stillborn. Then, in 1845, she suffered another devastating loss with the death of her only son, who was just ten months old.

Despite her deep sensitivity, Gaskell’s naturally joyful and cheerful disposition helped her cope with the many losses she faced. Over time, these tragic experiences were transformed into characters and scenes of her novels. One such example can be found in Ruth, where Leonard weeps at his mother’s deathbed. Yet, paradoxically, Gaskell’s life was also rich in many ways: filled with joy, deep affection, friendships, personal satisfaction, and even significant financial success, thanks to her career as a writer.

Balancing the misfortunes of her early childhood was the affection and warmth she received from a close-knit extended family who lovingly welcomed her into their home in Knutsford, not far from Manchester. It was her mother’s side of the family—the Hollands—who took charge of Gaskell’s early education and would remain a constant source of support throughout her life. In adulthood, a happy marriage to a reserved yet deeply devoted, honest and generously selfless man, along with the birth of four loving and ever-present daughters, fulfilled Gaskell in her roles as both wife and mother.

In fact, despite her dinners with the intellectual élite of her time, the social gatherings, and her repeated travels through Switzerland, France, Italy, Germany and Belgium, Gaskell remained very much a woman of her era—one for whom true fulfilment was still rooted in family life. The Victorian Age, after all, was full of contradictions: while women were often “taught everything in inverse proportion to its importance” 1, at the same time the feminist movement began to take shape. Although Gaskell cannot be defined as a feminist in the strict sense, she was undoubtedly an emancipated woman. In fact, one might even suggest that in a novel like Ruth, she offers a subtle—though not entirely implicit—critique of the suffering endured by women who fall victim to careless and domineering men, and of society’s complete failure to condemn such abuse.

Gaskell did not become a writer out of an emerging awareness of the growing feminist consciousness of her time, nor was she driven by an irresistible creative impulse to take up the pen or any ambition for success. It was her husband, William Gaskell, who encouraged her to write. Witnessing the deep sorrow that consumed her after the death of their son, he intuitively recognised that writing might offer her a way out of the darkness of an unbearable daily life and support her through the grieving process. At the time, no one could have imagined just how successful her literary career would become.

Much of this success is owed not only to Gaskell’s undeniable storytelling talent, but also to the early support of the Howitts, who gave her the opportunity to publish her first works. Later, the recognition and encouragement of Charles Dickens played a key role in bringing her literary career into the spotlight.

Mary Barton (1848) was Gaskell’s first novel, and it already displayed the remarkable quality of her writing, though with certain limitations in intensity and naturalness that would gradually fade in her later works. In this early phase, a moralistic tone—concerned with ensuring that sinners are punished according to the standards of the time—often accompanies the narrative, occasionally resulting in commentary that does not always serve the plot’s development. The underlying theme of this novel, as in later works such as North and South (1855), is the profound difficulty of meaningful communication between human beings, especially between the working class and the wealthy industrial élite. This failure is embodied in the figure of millworker John Barton, the main male character and father of Mary (who gives the novel its title), and his relationship with the wealthy Henry Carson. Upon its anonymous publication, the novel made a strong impression on readers due to its openly unconventional stance: the author’s sympathy for the working class was easy to recognise. Although John Barton is indeed guilty of Carson’s murder, he’s portrayed as a tragically—and unexpectedly—noble character, who ultimately punishes himself through a consuming remorse that leads to his death.

Mary Barton firmly established Gaskell her among the leading writers of her time, drawing the attention of Charles Dickens, then at the peak of his fame, who soon became her mentor, supporter and admirer. It was Dickens who encouraged her to continue writing, offering her several opportunities for collaboration and introducing her to the literary élite, including some of the most influential writers and critics of the time.

One of the most significant encounters—although not facilitated by Dickens but rather through connections linked to the Knutsford social circle—was with Charlotte Brontë. The two quickly developed a strong mutual admiration and warm friendship, which would inspire Gaskell to write The Life of Charlotte Brontë (1857) after Brontë’s death. This biography was born out of a shared wish—not only Gaskell’s, but also that of Charlotte’s father, Patrick Brontë, and her widower, Arthur Nicholls—to unveil to both contemporary readers and future generations the woman behind the author, and in doing so, to honour her memory.

Out of a sense of decorum, Gaskell chose to discreetly omit the true nature of Charlotte’s feelings for Monsieur Heger. Nevertheless, despite this and other careful omissions, the biography caused an intense and overwhelming storm of public controversy. Gaskell soon found herself facing a wave of legal challenges and harsh criticism, which left a lasting impact on her emotional well-being.

The biography’s closing lines offer a powerful insight into the spirit of this work:

“I have little more to say. If my readers find that I have not said enough, I have said too much. I cannot measure or judge of such a character as hers. I cannot map out vices, and virtues, and debateable land [...] I turn from the critical, unsympathetic public – inclined to judge harshly because they have only seen superficially and not thought deeply. I appeal to the larger and more solemn public, who know how to look with tender humility at faults and errors; how to admire generously extraordinary genius and how to reverence with warm, full hearts and noble virtue. To that Public I commit the memory of Charlotte Brontë.”

According to Mr. Brontë, the biography would stand among the most celebrated of all time—and so it did. Eighty years later, Mario Praz would describe it as “masterful”.

Elizabeth Gaskell’s narrative style reveals an intriguing evolution: the initially assertive authorial voice—eager to convey its moral purposes—gradually softens, allowing the characters to speak for themselves, each with their own voice and personality. In her earlier works—Mary Barton, Ruth (even more markedly), as well as North and South and Sylvia’s Lovers—a clearly moralising purpose emerges, likely influenced by her volunteer work alongside her husband, a minister in the Unitarian Church. However, by the time of Wives and Daughters, this at times intrusive narrative presence almost entirely disappears, giving way to rich, fully developed characterisation, even of the secondary figures. It is no surprise, then, that this final novel is widely regarded as the masterpiece of a distinguished literary career.

Having completed the monumental task of Wives and Daughters—written and published in as a monthly serial while facing numerous challenges, including a trip to Paris, another to London, several weeks of illness, and, not least, the purchase of a country house—Gaskell was finally able to relax. The new home had been secretly purchased and furnished unbeknown to her husband, with the intention that she would present it to him as a surprise. It was meant to be the perfect place for the couple to spend their later years peacefully, far from the unhealthy air of industrial Manchester. In time, it would also offer a secure and respectable future for their two unmarried daughters. One weekend, most of the family gathered there to celebrate the house and its newly completed furnishings. Everything was ready for the surprise; all that remained was for Gaskell to reveal it to her husband. Tragically, she never got the chance. During lunch, surrounded by the joy and lightheartedness that only the deepest bonds of affection can bring, she suddenly passed away, quietly collapsing on the sofa, her breathing ceasing without warning.

It was Sunday, November 12th, 1865. The final chapter of Wives and Daughters would be published posthumously two months later.


Translated by Rebecca Cigognini.
1 Translation by Rebecca Cigognini, from Mario Praz, Storia della letteratura inglese (1937), Sansoni editore, Firenze (History of English Literature)