Harriet Martineau
do what we ask, saying that it was so completely clear between us
that we need never speak of it again.
I may add that Mr. King has shown me the letters in which Mrs.
Martineau made the necessary arrangements with him for his task. Mr.
Atkinson was, however, now residing out of England, and not in a
position to usefully accept the bequest, so he intimated his desire
to be freed from his promise to undertake the examination of his
friend's brain. A codicil was added to Harriet Martineau's will,
therefore, revoking the provision about this matter.
The next quotation shows how little the long prospect of death had
changed her expectations and desires about things supernatural:--
November 19, '72.
I mean to try to do justice to what I think and believe, by
avowing the satisfaction I truly feel with my release from
selfish superstition and trumpery self-regards, and with the calm
conclusions of my reason about what to desire and expect in the
position in which each one of us mysterious human beings finds
him or herself. It is all we have to do now (such as you and I),
to be satisfied with the conditions of the life we have left
behind us, and fearless of the death which lies before us. Nobody
will ever find me craving the "glory and bliss" which the
preachers set before us, and pray that we may obtain. Some of
them are very good and kind, I know; but they will never create
any longing of the sort in me. But why should I scribble on in
this way to you? Perhaps because our new Evangelical curate has
written me almost the worst and silliest letter of this sort that
I ever saw. Enough of him then! But I have left myself no room or
strength for other matters this time. I wanted to tell you about
the effect--according to my experience--of a second reading of
_Adam Bede_, Miss Evans' first great novel. A singular mind is
hers, I should think, and truly wonderful in power and scope. Her
intellectual power and grace attract and win people of very high
intellectual quality.
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
that the general bodily condition is declining in good proportion
to the brain weakening.... Miss ---- and her naval partner remind
me of the pair in the novel that I have read eleven times--Miss
Austen's _Persuasion_--unequalled in interest, charm and truth
(to my mind). There is a hint there of the drawback of
separation; but yet,--who would have desired anything for Anne
Elliot and her Captain Wentworth but that they should marry? I am
now in the middle of Miss Thackeray's _Old Kensington_--reading
it with much keen pleasure, and some satisfaction and surprise.
There are exquisite touches in it; and there is a further
disclosure of power, of genuine, substantial, vital power; but
her mannerism grows on her deplorably, it seems to me. The amount
and the mode of analysis of minds and characters are too far
disproportioned to the other elements to be accepted without
regret, and, perhaps, some fear for the future. But I have not
read half the book yet; and I hope I may have to recall all
fault-finding, and to dwell only on the singular value and beauty
of the picture-gallery she has given us.
An incident of this year's (1873) story, which must not be
overlooked, was an offer of a pension made to Harriet Martineau by
Mr. Gladstone. She had written sadly of her own sufferings in a
letter to Mrs. Grote, which referred also to Mr. Grote's life, and
that lady had published the letter. Mr. Gladstone, in delicate and
friendly terms, intimated to Mrs. Martineau that if pecuniary anxiety
in any way added to her troubles, he would recommend the Queen to
give her one of the literary pensions of the Civil List. She declined
it with real gratitude, partly upon the same grounds which had before
led her to refuse a similar offer, but with the additional reason now
that she would not expose the Queen and the Premier to insult for
showing friendliness to "an infidel."
The next letter is mainly domestic, but I am sure that those spoken
of by name in it will not object to publication of references in
order to show Harriet Martineau in her amiable, considerate household
character:--
December 6, 1873.
DEAR FRIEND,
I will not trouble and pain you by a long story about the cares
and anxieties which make the last stage of my long life hard to
manage and to bear. If I could be quite sure of the end being as
near as one would suppose, I could bear my own share quietly
enough; but it is a different thing watching a younger life going
out prematurely. My beloved Jenny will die, after all, we think,
bravely as she has borne up for two years. The terrible East
winds again got hold of her before she went (so early as
October!) to her winter quarters; and there are sudden and grave
symptoms of dropsy. The old dread of the post has returned upon
me; and I am amazed to find how I can still suffer from fear. I
am quite unfit to live alone--even for a week; yet I mean to
venture it, if necessary. Miss Goodwin _shall_ go (to Leeds) for
Christmas Day, on which the family have always hitherto
assembled. I will not prevent their doing so now. My niece
Harriet (Higginson) was to come, as usual, for a month's holiday
at Christmas; but her mother has lamed herself by a fall, and it
must be doubtful whether she can be left. Parents protest the
dear girl shall come, but she and I wait to see. There is nobody
else; for there is illness in all families, or anxiety about
illness elsewhere. "Well! we shall be on the other side of it
somehow," as people say, and it won't matter much then. My young
cook is wanted on Christmas Day to be a bridesmaid, at
Nottingham. So I have a real reason for giving up the great
Christmas party I have given (in the kitchen) every year till
now. It will be costly giving the people handsome dinners in
their own homes; but the house will be quiet, and to me the day
will be like any other day. It is not now a time for much mirth;
the Arnolds meeting at their mother's grave, my Jenny absent,
from perilous illness, my brain failing, so that I can do nothing
for anybody but by money (and not very much in that way). We are
all disposed to keep quiet--wishing the outside world a "Merry
Christmas."
April 15th, 1874.
I am reading again that marvellous _Middlemarch_, finding I did
not half value it before. It is not a book to issue as a serial.
Yet, read _en suite_, I find it almost more (greater) than I can
bear. The Casaubons set me dreaming all night. Do you ever hear
_any_-thing of Lewes and Miss Evans?
During the whole of the time over which these letters extend Mrs.
Martineau was subject to fainting fits, in any one of which her life
might have ended. It was thus necessary for her to have her maid
sleeping in her bed-room. Caroline, the "dear friend and servant" for
twenty-one years, died early in 1875. Her place was filled by the
younger maid, Mary Anne, whom Caroline had trained. The maid has told
me of her mistress's kindness and readiness to be amused; of the
gentleness of her manner, and the gratitude which she seemed to feel
for all loving tendance. The next letter gives a glimpse of the daily
life from the mistress' pen:--
Dec. 8, '75.
East winds have been abundantly bitter; but this house is
sheltered from the east and north. We do pity the babes and their
mothers in the cottages below; and there is no denying that I am
painfully stupefied by such cold as we have; but my _aides_ and
my maids are all as well and as happy as if we had the making of
the season. It is a daily surprise to me to see how Jenny holds
_out_ and on, without any sort of relapse; yet I _cannot_ rise
above the anxiety which haunts me in the midst of every night and
early morning--dread of hearing that she and Miss Goodwin are ill
with the cold which makes _me_ so ill. By six o'clock I can stay
in bed no longer. My maid and I (in the same room) turn out of
our beds as the clock strikes; she puts a match to the fire, and
goes for my special cup of tea (needed after my bad nights),
while I brush my hair. I take the tea to the window, and look out
for the lights (Fox How usually the first) as they kindle and
twinkle throughout the valley--Orion going down behind Loughrigg
as day is breaking. Then I get on the bed for half an hour's
reading, till the hot water comes up. By that time I am in a
panic about my _aides_; but as soon as I am seated at my little
table ready for breakfast, in come the dear creatures, as gay as