by Nick Holland
It was a distance of around 500 metres from the bath house to No. 2, The Cliff, and Anne, spurning the help that was offered from the spa, had determined to walk it herself, slow painful step by slow painful step. She had reached the gate when she collapsed exhausted to the floor, but still Anne would not be defeated. Mrs Jefferson, who had seen the fall, and would afterwards tell Charlotte about it, had rushed to assist Anne, but she was waved away. Anne rose slowly to her own feet, wheezing with each exertion, and then walked in under her own power.
In the afternoon, her breathing had eased a little once more, and Anne asked if she could be taken down to the beach. This was arranged, and Anne then paid for a donkey ride. Worried that the boy would drive the donkey too hard, and hating as always any cruelty to one of God’s creatures, she took the reins herself and drove off slowly along the beach. Once again, she had told Ellen and Charlotte not to follow her, and this time Charlotte understood why. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts: she had a lifetime of living to do in a handful of minutes.
Stopping the donkey, Anne rested and looked once more about her. Yes, she smiled, nature was wonderful, the world was good. Emily had been right about that as she had about many things, if only she could have found the sustaining faith that Anne had. In the still silence of Scarborough beach she thought back to the scene towards the end of Agnes Grey set in this exact location. Agnes had been waiting, and her man had come. Now she had the conviction that her man was waiting, she could almost feel his presence walking along the beach just as she had imagined it. She turned the donkey around and made her return journey. The time for waiting was over. Later on, that evening, Anne was taken across the bridge to the spa once more, looking around the gardens before returning.
On the next morning, a Sunday, Anne asked to be taken to church. With unusual gentleness Charlotte told her that was out of the question. She then asked Charlotte and Ellen to go, and leave her there, but they would not hear of leaving her. It was then that Anne realised the toll that the exertions and excitement of the last day had taken. ‘Do you think we should try to get back to Haworth now?’ she asked. Charlotte asked Anne what she wanted to do, but in answer she turned her head once more and looked down at the sea. Anne’s choice was made, and Charlotte squeezed her sister’s hand. She would die in Scarborough.
Why did Anne make this choice? Certainly it was a town that she held great affection for, featuring it in both her novels. She was also enough of a pragmatist to know that even if she tried to return to Haworth, she may not have made it. At the heart of her decision, however, was one final act of selfless bravery, and it was also at the forefront of her mind when she had lobbied to be brought to the resort. Yes, if God willed it the healing waters of Scarborough could still have saved her, but at heart she knew that her moment to take the cup had come. Her father was then 72 years old, and he had seen four of his children buried in Haworth, including two in the last year. Anne wanted to save Patrick the grief of having to see another child die in front of his eyes so soon after he had watched Branwell and Emily perish. This last act of kindness was to spare him the horror that Anne worried he might not withstand.
Whilst church was now out of the question, she asked to be taken to the beach one more time. She sat on a seat quite alone, having urged her companions to visit the Pomona concert hall. After being brought back to the lodgings she turned and took one last breath, shallow and struggling as it was, of sea air. All was done now as it had to be done; a calmness descended.
Ellen recalled that the Sunday evening heralded a spectacular gold and red sunset over the bay:
It closed with the most glorious sunset ever witnessed. The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded by the rays of the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like burnished gold; the little boats near the beach heaved on the ebbing tide, inviting occupants. The view was grand beyond description. Anne was drawn in her easy chair to the window to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became illuminated almost as much as the glorious sun she gazed upon. Little was said, for it was plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing view before her to penetrate forwards to the region of unfading glory.21
A glorious sunset over the bay, a little boat bobbing on the tide, and with her back to us, Anne looking out over it. Here was the physical fulfilment of the picture she had drawn nearly a decade earlier. She had thought it was a sunrise looking out at a life to come, now she realised it had been a sunset looking over a life that was passing.
Monday morning, 29 May arrived, and Anne tried to walk down the stairs but found that she could no longer manage it. Ellen attempted to carry her, but found it a far from easy task. As they reached the last step, Anne’s body flopped forwards, and their heads clashed. A shocked Ellen, thinking that her friend had died in her arms, dropped her into an armchair, at which point Anne stirred and Ellen apologised. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Anne, ‘it could not be helped, you did your best.’22
Once more Anne was placed in the window, and then at eleven she announced that she felt a change coming on. A doctor was called for, and Anne, worried now about the burden she was placing on Charlotte and Ellen, asked him if there was a possibility she could return to Haworth. The doctor looked awkwardly towards Charlotte for guidance, but in a calm voice Anne asked him to tell her the truth. She was told that she had entered her dying hours, at which Anne thanked him for his honesty and kindness and sent him away.
The doctor returned on two more occasions, on the hour marks, to observe how things were passing. He was amazed at how calm Anne remained and later told Charlotte, who then related it to W.S. Williams, that ‘in all his experience he had seen no such death-bed, and that it gave evidence of no common mind’.23
Anne continued to gaze out of the window, the silence broken only by the ticking of a clock, but she could no longer see what was in front of her. Turning her head she once more asked Ellen to look after Charlotte as a sister and then said she believed she was now passing out of this world into heaven. There was a calm, steady ecstasy in her voice.
We can imagine how sights long since seen, voices long ago heard, came now to Anne’s mind. She saw her sister Maria reading to her, Branwell presenting her with a picture of a fairy-tale castle, her aunt was giving her a goodnight kiss, she was a child again receiving the dancing doll from papa, Rossini’s overture was playing in the background, she called out to Flossy who was chasing after some sheep, and then she heard the words of comfort and strength that James la Trobe had given her. She felt fingers entwined in hers, it was Emily comforting her as a child, William Weightman’s hand wiped away with tenderness a stray lock of hair from her face.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of crying. Charlotte had reached the depths of despair, and her grief could be held back no more. If only Charlotte could know that there was no need for grief. Anne uttered her last words: ‘Take courage, Charlotte, take courage.’24
At two o’clock on Monday, 28 May 1849, with bravery, stillness, certainty and love, Anne Brontë died.
Notes
1. Green, Dudley, Patrick Brontë Father of Genius, p.133
2. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.157
3. Ibid.
4. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.159
5. Barker, Juliet, The Brontës, p.581
6. The manuscript of this poem is held in the Brontë Parsonage Museum, Haworth. It was published posthumously by Charlotte in 1850. It was Charlotte who gave the previously untitled poem the title of ‘Last Lines’, and added the note: ‘I have given the last memento of my sister Emily; this is the last of my sister Anne: These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid aside – for ever.’
7. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.167
8. Letter to Reverend David Thom, 30 December 1848, manuscript now held in Princeton University Library, New Jersey
9. The manuscript of this poem,
clearly showing the point at which the poem was set down and then taken up again, is held in the Brontë Parsonage Museum, Haworth
10. Gérin, Winifred, Anne Brontë, pp.304–5
11. ‘There’s little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I’ve lived the parting hour to see, Of one I would have died to save.’ The opening lines of ‘On the Death of Anne Brontë’, written by Charlotte on 21 June 1849
12. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.208
13. Letter to Ellen Nussey, 5 April 1849. Manuscript now held in the Brontë Parsonage Museum, Haworth
14. Matthew 26: 36–9, King James Bible
15. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.205
16. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.208
17. Ibid.
18. As recorded in Charlotte Brontë’s cash-book, now held in the Brontë Parsonage Museum, Haworth
19. Nussey, Ellen, A Short Account of the Last Days of Dear A.B., p.2. Manuscript now held in King’s School Library, Canterbury
20. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.213
21. Nussey, Ellen, A Short Account of the Last Days of Dear A.B., p.2. Manuscript now held in King’s School Library, Canterbury
22. Barker, Juliet, The Brontës, p.593
23. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, p.220
24. Nussey, Ellen, A Short Account of the Last Days of Dear A.B., p.10. Manuscript now held in King’s School Library, Canterbury
19
THE LEGACY LIVES ON
Because the road is rough and long,
Shall we despise the skylark’s song,
That cheers the wanderer’s way?
Or trample down, with reckless feet,
The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet
Because they soon decay?
Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by,
Because the next is bleak and drear;
Or not enjoy a smiling sky,
Because a tempest may be near?
No! while we journey on our way,
We’ll smile on every lovely thing;
And ever, as they pass away,
To memory and hope we’ll cling.
And though that awful river flows
Before us, when the journey’s past,
Perchance of all the pilgrim’s woes
Most dreadful – shrink not – ’tis the last!
Though icy cold, and dark, and deep;
Beyond it smiles that blessed shore,
Where none shall suffer, none shall weep,
And bliss shall reign for evermore!
‘Views Of Life’
The doctor came one last time, to certify the death. Charlotte remained slumped in a chair, almost insensible to the world, with Ellen and Mrs Jefferson taking care of the necessary arrangements. Charlotte had decided, in accordance with what she knew Anne’s wishes were, to have her sister buried in Scarborough, rather than causing extra grief to their father by having the body transported back to Haworth.
Thus it is that Anne is the only Brontë not buried under the floor of St Michael and All Angels’ church, Haworth. She was buried on 30 May in St Mary’s churchyard, at the head of a small section adjacent to the main churchyard itself. Anne’s grave looks down to the sea below and above her is the hill leading to Scarborough Castle, the setting that Anne had chosen for Mr Weston to propose to Agnes Grey.
St Mary’s was being renovated at the time, so although Anne was buried there the funeral service itself was held at Christ church on Vernon Road. The doctor who had visited Anne in her final hours was so moved and impressed by her conduct that he offered to come to the funeral, but Charlotte politely said no, Charlotte and Ellen would be all the mourners she would need. When they reached Christ church, however, they found one more person was already in attendance. It was Margaret Wooler, who must have been alerted to the news by either Charlotte or Ellen or read the notice that appeared in a Scarborough newspaper, paying final respects to one former pupil and providing comfort for another.1
Patrick had been expecting the news that Charlotte sent to him. He tried to comfort his only remaining daughter now, telling her that he had known he would not see Anne again and ordering Charlotte to spend some time at the coast recuperating before returning home. She and Ellen spent a further week in Scarborough, before Charlotte journeyed alone to the nearby resorts of Filey and then Bridlington.
Arranging the funeral and headstone had been more than Charlotte could bear, and so with her customary kindness and pragmatism, Ellen filled the void. Unfortunately, not wishing to question Charlotte at such a delicate time, when her mental anguish was at a dangerous new height, some of the information Ellen provided to the stonemasons was incorrect. It was 1852 before Charlotte could bring herself to visit the grave, and she found that there were five errors on the headstone. She paid to have these corrected, but one still remains. The headstone now reads: ‘She died aged 28, May 28th 1849’. She was, in fact, 29.
The official cause of Anne’s death was given as ‘consumption – six months’,2 but it seems likely that the tuberculosis, then referred to as consumption, had Anne in its grip long before then. In 1972, the eminent doctor Professor Philip Rhodes published a study called ‘A Medical Appraisal of the Brontës’, which sheds new light on the illnesses that accounted for Anne, Emily and Branwell.
The first Brontës to die of tuberculosis were Maria and Elizabeth. Both contracted it at that hotbed of illness, Cowan Bridge, and died within six weeks of each other after returning to Haworth. Haworth itself was, as we have seen, a community where deadly epidemics were an annual occurrence and where life expectancy was much lower than in surrounding areas, and yet the main killers there were cholera and typhoid rather than tuberculosis, a primarily urban disease. This makes it an anachronism that five of the six Brontë children should die of the disease. The relative seclusion and insularity peculiar to the Brontë children meant that they would not have been as exposed to these illnesses and would therefore not have built up a resistance in the way that other children did. When Maria and Elizabeth came into contact with tubercular pathogens at Cowan Bridge their bodies simply had no means of fighting them off.
During their decline at Haworth, both children would have come into regular contact with their brother and sisters, and it seems probable that all the Brontës gained their first exposure to tuberculosis at this time. Anne’s recurring bouts of breathlessness and flu throughout her life may not have been purely a symptom of her asthma but of underlying tuberculosis. Even with these latent low-level doses of the disease in their systems, the events of 1848 and 1849 suggest that there was another particularly virulent strain introduced to the household, and there’s one location that is extremely likely to have been the source: London.
London was then the largest city in the western world with a rapidly growing population; conditions were rife for the spread of tuberculosis. Charlotte had travelled more widely and frequently in the previous years, and so she may have had greater natural resistance to the disease, but Anne, who had often suffered illnesses and was deemed to be in ‘delicate’ health, was at great risk from the pathogens that were all around her in the capital. Those days at the Chapter Coffee House were among the happiest of her life, but they could also have been responsible for the wave of death that was to come to the parsonage.
Branwell’s body was already greatly weakened by his addictions to alcohol and opiates, and so the pathogens that his sister unwittingly brought back from London would kill him within three months of her return. Emily had lived an increasingly solitary life in the preceding years, even retaining her standard aloofness during her time in Brussels, and so would have had very little resistance against the massive dose of tuberculosis that was now within her home. She took it upon herself to be nursemaid to Branwell, spending time in close proximity to him, and i
n so doing she signed her own death warrant. From then on, it was only a matter of time before Anne too succumbed to the same illness. This dreadful, yet unstoppable, chain of events was summed up over a century later by Professor Rhodes:
Anne perhaps was the most amiable and affable of all the Brontës, but it seems likely that it was the exposure to the pathogens of the big city that killed her, and it is probable that it was she who brought home the infection which killed Branwell and Emily before her.3
If Thomas Newby had not made that spurious claim about the identity of Acton Bell, causing George Smith to send his letter to Haworth, the Brontë story could have been very different. As it is, Charlotte was left alone and bereft, and she took it upon herself to act as literary executor for her sisters, much to the detriment of Anne’s reputation.
We know that Emily and Anne wrote large amounts of Gondal prose, yet none of it survives. We also know that there must have been many more letters, poems and possibly diary entries from both sisters that are no longer in existence, although hope always springs eternal that more of Anne’s letters may resurface one day, particularly of that long and fruitful correspondence with the Robinson girls of which not a trace can currently be found.
Sadly for lovers of literature, and students of the Brontës’ lives, it seems that much of this material belonging to Anne and Emily was destroyed either before or after their deaths, and the most likely culprit for this was Charlotte.
Charlotte herself admitted to some of these actions. After the deaths of Anne and Emily, she prepared new editions of their poetry and prose. Sometimes she would amend the work as well, as in Charlotte’s version of Wuthering Heights where she softened Joseph’s dialect to make it easier to understand for readers outside of Yorkshire. She also carefully selected which works she thought were likely to enhance her sisters’ reputations and which weren’t. Of going through Anne’s papers she writes, ‘In looking over my sister Anne’s papers, I find mournful evidence that religious feeling had been to her but too much like what it was to Cowper.’4 William Cowper was an extremely popular eighteenth-century poet, but he suffered so greatly from religious doubt brought on by his struggle with Calvinist doctrines that he spent two years in an insane asylum. Charlotte adds that finding this ‘evidence’ would be ‘too distressing, were it not combated by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome’.5