by Nick Holland
Whatever was suggested to Anne, she tried most willingly. Every step was a labour of Hercules for her, yet she would make herself take them, effacing grimaces with the sweet smile that could capture hearts. Throughout these months a change occurred in Charlotte too. She saw now that she had misjudged her youngest sister all her life, and she looked with wonder upon Anne’s patient faith and resilience. The love that had lain dormant since childhood resurfaced, and she finally accepted how much Anne meant to her. She was the final link to their past, she could not be allowed to go the way of the others. As Charlotte later wrote in a touching elegy, Anne was the one who Charlotte would have died to save.11
There was one treatment that Anne longed to try, and in her usual calm and measured way she continued to urge its trial. Dr Teale had said that removal to a warm climate could bring about good results for sufferers of consumption, but only if it was undertaken before the disease reached its final climax. As the wintry winds subsided at last, Anne was impatient to put the plan into action.
Charlotte was less sure of the wisdom of this course of action. She saw how thin Anne was becoming, how the slightest exertion could be almost too much for her. Surely, she thought, Anne could not survive any such journey? We must wait, she told Anne, until the weather becomes warmer and until your strength returns a little. And so they waited, all the time knowing that each day could bring the change they most dreaded.
Anne’s quiet persistence continued, and at her behest Charlotte finally consulted Dr Teale on this matter in April. It was not the reply that Charlotte had hoped for: he saw no problem in taking Anne to the coast when the weather improved, and he even went so far as to suggest Scarborough, a resort known for its healing powers.
‘Thank you Lord,’ Anne said in silent prayer when she read the letter from her doctor. It was the precise answer she had wanted, and of course no better location could be found for her. She would see Scarborough once more, watch the raging sea once again. Her spirits soared, yet the illness continued to gain hold. Once more, Anne was told that she would have to wait for better weather and better health. Each night she fought this declaration, not by protestations but by prayer. If God willed it, she would get to Scarborough.
Despite this resignation, Anne also knew that she needed an ally if she was to get to Scarborough, and there was only one suitable candidate. Ellen Nussey, thinking to bring some temporary relief to Charlotte and her father, had suggested in March that Anne come to stay with her in Birstall and be cared for by her sisters. Charlotte was horrified by this idea, telling Ellen that she could not bear it if Anne was to die away from her at Brookroyd. Nevertheless, a month later Anne would write to Ellen herself, asking her to accompany Charlotte and her to Scarborough. If Ellen agreed to this plan, she reasoned, Charlotte would be much more likely to accept it. Ellen affirmed that she would be willing to help, and so Anne wrote again explaining her plan.
The letter was written on 5 April 1849. It is written on two sheets of small paper, one of which has a thick black border, showing that Anne was still in mourning for Emily. The letter, unlike some of Anne’s other letters, is written in cross letter style. This means that lines are written both horizontally and vertically, so that the page has to be turned around after reading to obtain the rest of the message. This was a relatively common practice at the time, as it saved on the cost of paper and postage, but it seems strange that Anne should have chosen the method for this particular letter, as at this time she had more money than she had ever had before and knew that she would have very little time left in which to spend it. Anne’s godparent, Fanny Outhwaite, had not seen her often, but she had never stopped thinking of her and had provided moments of financial assistance to the Brontë family throughout her life. Fanny had died on 14 February 1849 and had left Anne the substantial amount of £200 in her will.12 It was from this bequest that Anne intended to fund the journey to Scarborough.
Anne’s final letter is a masterpiece of patience, faith and compassion. Despite the physical pain we know she was suffering, it is written cross style in a very straight, clear and legible hand. Now a key treasure at the Brontë Parsonage Museum, the sight of it has been known to reduce a reader to tears, so brave was the emaciated young woman who wrote it. It reads:
My dear Miss Nussy,
I thank you greatly for your kind letter, and your ready compliance with my proposal as far as the will can go at least. I see however that your friends are unwilling that you should undertake the responsibility of accompanying me under present circumstances. But I do not think there would be any great responsibility in the matter. I know, and every body knows that you would be as kind and helpful as any one could possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome. It would be as a companion not as a nurse that I should wish for your company, otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and often repeated invitation to Brookroyd, pray give my sincere thanks to your mother and sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting my presence upon them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light of the trouble but trouble there must be, more or less – and certainly no pleasure from the society of a silent invalid stranger – I hope however that Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany me after all, for she is certainly very delicate and greatly needs a change of air and scene to renovate her constitution. And then your going with me before the end of May is apparently out of the question, unless you are disappointed in your visitors, but I should be reluctant to wait till then if the weather would at all permit an earlier departure. You say May is a trying month and so say others. The earlier part is often cold enough I acknowledge, but according to my experience, we are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half when the laburnums and lilacs are in bloom; whereas June is often cold and July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than this for my impatience of delay; the doctors say that change of air or removal to a better climate would hardly ever fail of success in consumptive cases if the remedy were taken in time, but the reason why there are so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred till it is too late. Now I would not commit this error; and to say the truth, though I suffer much less from pain and fever than I did when you were with us, I am decidedly weaker and very much thinner, my cough still troubles me a good deal, especially in the night, and, what seems worse than all I am subject to great shortness of breath on going up stairs or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances I think there is no time to be lost. I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, in the hope that you, dear Miss Nussey would give as much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me not only for Papa’s and Charlotte’s sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practise – humble and limited indeed – but still I should not like them to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God’s will be done. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me, dear Miss N.
Yours affectionately,
Anne Brontë13
Her signature, the last words she would ever write, is scrunched up into the corner of the fourth side of paper. Anne had run out of room, she was running out of time, but she had said all she had to say. It is a letter full of piquancy, one of the most touching moments being her wish for a little more time so that she could ‘do some good in the world’ and her belief that she had lived ‘to so little purpose’. Her characteristic humility survived until the very last, but the world would later judge her efforts in a different and greater light.
This humility can make one think of the Beatitudes of Jesus at the sermon on the mount (‘Blessed are the humble, for they shall inherit the earth’), but the letter and Anne’s attitude at this time, the dusk of her life, is also redolent of another piece of scripture, and one that Anne would have been ver
y familiar with. Surely in these times of trial she found comfort in turning to a passage she would have heard again and again at every Easter celebration: Matthew, Chapter 26. Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane with his disciples. He tells them to wait for him as he goes off to pray, knowing that his torture and death is just hours away. Here is the passage in the King James version that Anne would have used:
Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, ‘Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder’. And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy. Then saith he unto them, ‘My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here and watch with me.’ And he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, ‘O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.’14
The corresponding passage from St Luke also adds how Jesus prayed so hard and was in such turmoil that he sweated drops of blood. These are the prayers that Anne used during her darkest moments in January, with the blood falling not from her forehead but her mouth. Anne’s letter to Ellen closes just as the prayer of Jesus had finished. She asks if it be possible for the cup of death to be taken away from her, ‘but God’s will be done’.
What were the ‘humble and limited schemes’ that Anne had in mind that would never come to fruition? Undoubtedly she was talking of another book, or even a series of books, and there can also be little doubt that Anne would have used her writing as a means of instructing people how to live a better life. Perhaps, emboldened by the support of people such as Reverend Thom, she would have written an overtly religious book or one that attacked the hypocrisy of some of the more severe preachers in the Church? As with the passing of all great writers, we shall never know what we lost.
Anne’s heartfelt letter to Ellen had the desired effect. Her objections expressed in an earlier letter, probably at the prompting of Charlotte, were overcome. May it must be, and plans were now put into place. Charlotte wrote to Margaret Wooler, who since giving up teaching had bought a house in Scarborough, for advice. Miss Wooler, who remembered her former pupil Anne well and fondly, offered to let them use her house free of charge while she was away, but Anne objected. The house was near to the North Bay, but Anne held fondest memories of the South Bay, where she had stayed before. In the end, there was only one possible location. They booked a suite at the exclusive Wood’s Lodgings, accommodation that Anne had stayed in with the Robinsons, at the section named ‘No. 2, The Cliff’. It was certainly expensive by the Brontës’ usual standards, but thanks to Fanny Outhwaite, Anne covered the costs for herself, Charlotte and Ellen.
As May arrived and the day of departure grew nearer, Charlotte became more and more troubled. Anne’s cough was getting worse not better, and she was getting weaker and thinner by the day. ‘I must go,’ Anne would say, ‘I must see the sea again.’ Such was Anne’s present condition that Charlotte thought she must warn Ellen, just as Patrick had warned Grundy before he met Branwell in his final days. On 1 May, Charlotte wrote: ‘She is very much emaciated, far worse than when you were with us; her arms are no thicker than a little child’s. The least exertion brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day, but we creep rather than walk.’15
By 12 May, however, Charlotte was writing to Ellen once more in a slightly more positive light. Cooler weather had arrived, and strangely enough it seemed to be beneficial to Anne’s condition. Charlotte even writes that ‘I still hope that if she gets over May she may last a long time.’16 Unusually for Charlotte, this letter wasn’t completed and posted on the same day, a sign of the physical and mental strain she was under. It finished with a postscript dated 14 May that reads, ‘Anne was very ill yesterday. She had difficulty of breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly still. Today she seems better again. I long for the moment to come when the experiment of the sea-air will be tried. Will it do her good? I cannot tell. I can only wish.’17
The fluctuations in health continued, but at last Charlotte was resolved not to block Anne’s journey to Scarborough if it was at all possible; it was obvious that there was no hope to be had in Haworth: something different must be tried. The date of departure had been set for 23 May. On that day, Ellen arrived, as had been arranged, at Keighley railway station to wait for the sisters. They did not turn up, and Ellen later wrote of her fear as she saw two coffins being unloaded from a train. The day was growing late, and Ellen returned home to Birstall, a distance of nearly 20 miles, with a heavy heart.
On the next day, Ellen set off early and travelled directly to Haworth. Arriving at the parsonage, she was surprised to see a carriage outside the door. Charlotte ran to her old friend and embraced her, explaining that Anne had been so ill the day before that she could barely leave her bed, but there had been a slight upturn again that morning. Looking into the carriage, Ellen saw Anne, dreadfully thin, already sitting there. Flossy was on her lap receiving one last cuddle, before Martha Brown took the dog away with her tail curled sadly between her legs and her head damp from Anne’s kisses and tears.
Patrick and old, faithful Tabby Aykroyd were watching out of a window. They had already said their last goodbyes, and Patrick would later write that he knew as the carriage pulled away that he would never see his youngest child again. Once the coach had set off, to the surprise of Charlotte and Ellen, Anne seemed to revive a little in both body and spirit. She was so close to her goal now, it was as if she could hear the sea calling to her; nothing could stop her.
Unable to walk any distance on her own, Anne found no shortage of people volunteering to help her whenever it was necessary. She was carried from her carriage to the train at Keighley and then out of the carriage at York. She was easy to carry: she was as light as a feather.
Fearing that the journey would be too arduous to be completed in one stage, the sisters and Ellen had agreed to stay overnight in York. Accommodation was arranged at the George Hotel in Coney Street, across the River Ouse from the railway station. The hotel has long since closed, but the original archway and window can be seen still, forming part of a shop on what is now a bustling street full of local shoppers and tourists.
On Friday morning a bath chair was hired for Anne, and she was pushed through the streets by Charlotte and Ellen in turn. Anne had explained to her sister how people dressed up in their finest for holidays in Scarborough, so one priority was to purchase suitable clothing. A list was made of the clothing needed, and it read: ‘Bonnet. Corsets. Stockings black silk. Dress. Gloves. Ribbon for neck.’18 To Charlotte the shopping trip seemed like a mockery under their present circumstances, but Anne insisted upon it, as well as insisting upon paying for the goods, and she was not now to be denied any of her wishes.
One building in York she longed to see more than any other was York Minster. It was a grand Yorkshire church, and one that this Yorkshire woman loved above all others. After being wheeled towards the entrance, Anne took a few faltering steps inside. Unable to walk far, she sat down on one of the back rows and glanced up at the ceiling. Ellen afterwards noted down in great detail the events of the last few days of the life of a woman who had become a real friend to her, and it is thanks to her moving and beautifully written testimony that we know much of what came to pass in York and Scarborough.
Anne spent a long time silently contemplating the ornately decorated bosses and struts, the carved angels and the stained-glass windows. It was, as it had been for centuries, a supremely beautiful scene. Her face was radiant, and it was as if she had been overcome by a profound joy. She whispered one half-finished sentence: ‘If finite power can do this, what is the …’19
Overcome by emotion, Anne was unable to finish the sentence, and Charlotte placed her back into the bath chair and wheeled her away, fearing that this contemplation of an earthly paradise was about to hasten her exit to another one.
On the next day they made the journey to Scarborough, and with each mile that passed
Anne grew happier and more talkative. She pointed out the countryside that she knew and talked of the happy times she had spent there, even in the summer that she had shared with poor Branwell.
Number 2, The Cliff had been prepared just as Anne and Charlotte had wished, and they also had the services of a housemaid named Jane Jefferson. The two bedrooms were upstairs, and below was a lounge with a large window. Anne was helped to it, and she stood looking down far below to the beach and the sea. She had changed, but the sea had not. It was strong and constant; it would be forever the same when Anne had gone, when generations after her had gone. She smiled and nodded her head. Yes, this gave her hope, even as she approached the end of her life. In the grandeur of these surroundings built to glorify God, she felt an affirmation that all was as she always thought, or at least hoped, it would be. All that she had read in scripture was true. What was to inevitably come would bring with it the mercy and salvation she had always dreamed of.
Charlotte wrote immediately to W.S. Williams, stating that the lodgings were comfortable and Anne was in the window looking down on the sea. ‘She says if she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this moment – but she cannot breathe freely.’20
Anne’s spirits were greatly raised, but her health would obstinately not respond. Little matter, she would follow Emily’s example and refuse to be a slave to her illness. That Saturday morning she asked to be taken to the spa baths, across the marvellous bridge that she so loved. Once there, she asked to be left alone in the baths with an attendant, insisting that Charlotte and Ellen go off to enjoy some of the wonderful sights she had told them about. They of course objected vigorously, until they perceived that their objections were upsetting Anne. She was an invalid, true, but she did not want to be treated as one. They left her soaking in the thermal waters and waited anxiously at the lodgings for her return.