Brontës (84 page)

In regard to politics, it must now appear to all rational and unprejudiced men, that, had the poor, unprincipled, temporizing Whigs, remain'd much longer in power, we should have been utterly ruined, as a nation, in respect, to both the worlds – May the Most High, enable the Conservatives to do their duty, and protect them from all the evil designs of their enemies! –
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While the district was caught up in the alarms and dangers of Chartist rioters, Patrick suffered a personal blow which affected him far more deeply than the current political strife. William Weightman, his curate for the last three years, fell ill with cholera, the scourge of the poor, while out visiting the sick. The disease was invariably fatal and despite the best medical and nursing attentions available, there was little anyone could do to relieve his acute sufferings. He seems to have been taken ill during the third week in August and, as he lingered painfully over the next two weeks, he was visited regularly by a distraught Branwell and a more stoical Patrick. ‘During his illness', Patrick later reported,

I generally visited him twice a day, joined with him in prayer, heard his request for the prayers of this congregation, listened to him whilst he expressed his entire dependence on the merits of the Saviour, heard of his pious admonitions to his attendants, and saw him in tranquility close his eyes on this bustling, vain, selfish world; so that I may truly say, his end was peace, and his hope glory.
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William Weightman was just twenty-eight, his death requiring all Patrick's
eloquence and faith to explain as the will of the God whom he had served so well. He died on 6 September and was buried four days later in Haworth Church by Patrick himself.
⁷⁵
As was then customary, Patrick preached a funeral sermon in his memory on the afternoon of Sunday, 2 October. Such was his grief that he was unable to follow his usual practice of preaching extempore and he prepared his sermon in advance, opening it with the words: ‘For more than twenty years, during which time I have ministered amongst you, this will be the first sermon I shall have read to this congregation, and it may be the last.' He went on to praise not only his curate's pious end but, more especially, his life, giving way to rare public emotion only when he declared ‘we were always like father and son'. It was right to mourn his death, but not without hope, for his salvation was assured. In words which could have been intended for his own son, Branwell, whose poems had often dwelt on the fear of death, he offered understanding and comfort:

There is more of scepticism in man's creed than he is wont to think of. Else, why does the pious youth fear to die? perhaps, that he may live well, perhaps not – or for what reason does the good old man wish to protract his weary existence, till he becomes a burthen to himself, and an incumbrance to others … that the followers of Christ should tremble at the last step of their journey, which will introduce them into His presence and His glory, can only be accounted for by the weakness of their faith, and the remains of sin …
⁷⁶

The tributes to Weightman flooded in. Patrick had his sermon published privately so that it could reach a larger audience; the
Leeds Intelligencer
eulogized Weightman's ‘talents, worth, and amiable character' and the inhabitants of Haworth raised a subscription to pay for a monument to their curate. The wording may again have been drawn up by Branwell.

He was three years curate of Haworth and by the congregation, and parishioners in general, was greatly respected, for his orthodox principles, active zeal, moral habits, learning, mildness and affability: his useful labours will long be gratefully remembered, by the members of the congregation; and Sunday school teachers, and scholars.
⁷⁷

Patrick and Branwell scarcely had time to inform Charlotte, Emily and Anne of Weightman's death and recover from their grief when another blow
struck. Aunt Branwell, who had always enjoyed uniformly good health, fell ill. It soon became obvious that she, too, was about to die. Branwell, reeling under the shock, could only write to Grundy, who had protested at his friend's failure to reply to his letters.

There is no misunderstanding. I have had a long attendance at the death-bed of the Rev. Mr Weightman, one of my dearest friends, and now I am attending at the death-bed of my aunt, who has been for twenty years as my mother. I expect her to die in a few hours.
⁷⁸

In fact, it was four more days before Aunt Branwell died, an internal obstruction of her bowel reducing her to helpless agony. Writing to Grundy again on the day she died, Branwell was almost beside himself.

As I don't want to lose a
real
friend, I write in deprecation of the tone of your letter. Death only has made me neglectful of your kindness, and I have lately had so much experience with him, that your sister would not now blame me for indulging in gloomy visions either of this world or another. I am incoherent, I fear, but I have been waking two nights witnessing such agonising suffering as I would not wish my worst enemy to endure; and I have now lost the guide and director of all the happy days connected with my childhood.
⁷⁹

If ever there was a corrective to the usual view of Aunt Branwell as a despotic, unpleasant and narrow-minded spinster who made the Brontë children's lives a misery, Branwell's unsolicited testimonial is it.

Letters had been immediately despatched to Charlotte and Emily in Brussels and to Anne at Thorp Green as soon as Aunt Branwell's death was imminent. The news of her illness did not reach Brussels until 2 November and although Charlotte and Emily made plans for their immediate departure, the next morning's post brought them news of her death. Aunt Branwell was actually buried that day by the Reverend James Chesterton Bradley, curate of Oakworth. As she had wished, her remains were deposited in the church ‘as near as convenient to the remains of my dear sister'.
⁸⁰
Anne arrived home in time for the funeral and was permitted by the Robinsons to spend a few weeks with her family before returning to Thorp Green. This was an absolute necessity as, without Aunt Branwell, the whole burden of running the household would otherwise have fallen on the only servant, twelve-year-old Martha Brown.

Although they were too late to pay their last respects to their aunt, Charlotte and Emily decided it was their duty to return home. They travelled to Antwerp, where they sailed for England on 6 November, arriving in Haworth on the morning of Tuesday, 8 November.
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They brought with them a letter from Monsieur Heger, addressed to their father, and further bad news. Martha Taylor, Mary's bright, cheerful and flighty younger sister, had died in Brussels only a few days before Aunt Branwell; like William Weightman she had succumbed to cholera and had been devotedly nursed by Mary who had proved ‘more than a Mother – more than a Sister watching – nursing – cherishing her – so tenderly, so unweariedly'. Charlotte had rushed over to the Château Koekelberg as soon as she heard the news, but had arrived only to find Martha had died in the night. Mary was taken away to stay with her cousins, the Dixons, in Brussels and on 30 October, the Brontës had visited her. They had walked together to the Protestant cemetery outside Brussels where Martha was buried and had then returned for a pleasant evening at the Dixons'. Charlotte especially returned home in low spirits, writing mournfully to Ellen, ‘Aunt – Martha – Taylor – Mr Weightman \are now/ all gone – how dreary & void everything seems –.'
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There was some comfort not only in being reunited at home, however, but in the glowing terms of Monsieur Heger's letter to their father. ‘I have not the honour of knowing you personally', he told Patrick,

and yet I have a feeling of profound admiration for you, for in judging the father of a family by his children one cannot be mistaken and in this respect the education and sentiments that we have found in your daughters can only give us a very high idea of your worth and of your character. You will undoubtedly learn with pleasure that your children have made extra-ordinary progress in all the branches of learning, and that this progress is entirely due to their love of work and their perseverance. With pupils like this we had very little to do; their progress is more your work than ours. We did not have to teach them the value of time and instruction, they had learnt all this in their paternal home; and we have only had, on our part, the slight merit of directing their efforts and providing suitable material for the praiseworthy activity which your daughters have drawn from your example and your lessons.
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Monsieur Heger went on to praise the improvement the girls had shown in their studies. Emily had progressed so well that she was about to receive
music lessons from the best teacher in Belgium; she was now teaching the piano herself and losing the last traces of her crippling shyness. Charlotte had begun to give lessons in French and had already acquired that ‘assurance and aplomb' so necessary to teachers. Had they been able to stay, the Hegers would have been able to offer at least one of them a position entirely suited to her tastes and giving her a much coveted independence. Though he did not wish to interfere, Monsieur Heger nevertheless made an indirect appeal to Patrick to allow the girls to return to Brussels.

You must believe, sir, this is not a question of personal interest with us, it is a question of affection. You will pardon me if we speak of your children, if we interest ourselves in their welfare, as if they were part of our own family; their personal qualities, their good will, their extreme zeal are the only reasons which compel us to risk your displeasure.
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Charlotte had already determined that she would return to Brussels but, for the moment at least, she had to remain at home. The Brontës were expected to go into mourning for their aunt and did so, though it did not take Charlotte long to arrange to meet Ellen. As her brother, George, was ill at home, Ellen did not wish to leave Brookroyd. Instead, she proposed that Charlotte should visit her there for a week, an invitation which Charlotte snapped up, despite having doubts as to how convenient her presence would be.
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Charlotte went to Brookroyd the day after Anne returned to Thorp Green. Anne had been quite happy to resign the household duties to Emily and had spent at least part of her precious time at home in writing two poems. In view of the fact that this was less than two months after William Weightman's death, it is worth pointing out that neither poem bore any relation to him or even expressed grief or suffering. The first completed a poem begun at Thorp Green in February, ‘In memory of a happy day in February.'

Blessed be Thou for all the Joy

My soul has felt today!

O let its memory stay with me

And never pass away!

The poem celebrated the quiet religious joy she had experienced when she had been given ‘a glimpse of truths divine':

I knew there was a God on high

By whom all things were made.

I saw his wisdom and his power

In all his works desplayed

But most through out the moral world

I saw his glory shine

I saw his wisdom infinite

His mercy all devine.

Deep secrets of his providence

In darkness long co[n]cealed

Were brought to my delighted eyes

And graciously revealed
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This poem was completed on 10 November, the same day she began another addressed to the religious poet, William Cowper. The mood of this composition, though appropriately melancholic, was again optimistic. Recalling how she had read Cowper's poems since childhood and in them traced her own sins and sorrows, hopes and fears, she reflected that she had not then known of the poet's real torments. Now, his years of suffering were ended, his ‘gentle soul' was in the bosom of his God and had found its home at last.

It must be so if God is love,

And answers fervent prayer;

Then surely thou shalt dwell on high

And I may meet thee there …

Yet should thy darkest fears be true

If Heaven <'s decree> be so severe

That such a soul as thine is lost

O! how shall I appear?
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The question in the last verse was surely hypothetical. It is clear from the rest of the poem that Anne had no doubts as to Cowper's salvation, though she may have feared for her own. In this quietly introspective mood, Anne returned to Thorp Green on 28 November, to recommence her uncongenial duties.
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It was while she was at Thorp Green in December that Anne wrote the only poem which can justifiably be attributed to William Weightman's death. It is worth quoting in full, if only because it is often produced as the trump card, ‘proving' Anne's unrequited passion for the curate.

I will not mourn thee, lovely one,

Though thou art torn away.

'Tis said that if the morning sun

Arize with dazzling ray

And shed a bright and burning beam,

Athwart the glittering main,

Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam

Enlulphed in clouds and rain.

And if
thy
life as transient proved

It hath been full as bright,

For thou wert hopeful and beloved;

Thy spirit knew no blight.

If few and short the joys of life

That thou on earth couldst know

Little thou knew'st of sin and strife

Nor much of pain and wo

If vain thy earthly hopes did prove

Thou canst not mourn their flight

Thy brightest hopes were fixed above

And they shall know no blight.

And yet I cannot check my sighs

Thou wert so young and fair