Miss Jane Martineau was at this time in very delicate health, and,
after long fluctuations of hope and fear, was compelled to leave her
aunt for the winter and go to a warmer climate. Mrs. Martineau's
letters show how cruel was her anxiety for "my precious Jenny," and
are filled with expressions of her feelings about the state of her
beloved young companion. All this is, of course, too personal for
quotation, but a perusal of it amply confirms the accounts of her
domestic affection, and the warmth and sensitiveness of her heart.
The loss of her niece from her side ultimately compelled the
engagement of a companion, Miss Goodwin, a young lady who became as
much attached to Harriet Martineau as did all others who came in
close relationship with her in those years.
May 10th, '73.
... The great event to me and my household is, that Caroline--my
dear maid and nurse--has seen Jenny.... It was such a pouring out
on both sides. It would have almost broken Jenny's heart not to
have seen this very dear friend of ours, when only half an hour
off. All her longing is to be by my side again. I never
discourage this; but I don't believe it can come to pass....
Everybody is kind and helpful; and our admiration of Miss Goodwin
ever increases.
AMBLESIDE, Sept. 7th, '73.
DEAR FRIEND,
I am not ungrateful nor insensible about your treating me with
letters, whether I reply or not. You may be sure I _would_ write
if I could. But you know I cannot, and why. At times I really
indulge in the hope and belief that the end is drawing near, and
then again, if I compare the present day with a year ago, it
seems as if there was no very great change. I still do not make
mistakes--or only in trifling slips of memory common enough at
seventy. Still I have no haunting ideas, no delusions, no
fears,--except that vague sort of misgiving that occurs when it
becomes a fatigue to talk, and to move about, and to plan the
duties of the day. Yet aware as I am of the character of the
change in me, and confident as I still am of not making a fool of
myself till I alter further, I now seldom or never (almost never)
feel _quite_ myself. I have told you this often lately; but I
feel as if it would not be quite honest to omit saying it while
feeling it to be the most prominent experience of my life at this
time. It is not always easy to draw the line as to what one
should tell in such a case. On the one hand, I desire to avoid
all appearance of weak and tiresome complaining of what cannot be
helped; and on the other, I do wish not to appear unaware of my
failures. I am sure you understand this, and can sympathize in
the anxiety about keeping the balance honest. There have been
heart-attacks now and then lately, which have caused digitalis
and belladonna to be prescribed for me; and this creates a hope