An Account Of The Death Of Anne Bronte

I know that all of you who visit this site regularly are great fans of Anne Brontë and her work, so I know you share with me in thinking that this is one of the saddest weeks in the Brontë story. It was on this week in 1849 that Anne Brontë died, aged just 29.

Anne was diagnosed with terminal consumption, what we today call tuberculosis, just days after the death of her beloved sister Emily Brontë. In the preceding months Anne had seen first hand how the disease had ravaged then killed her siblings Branwell and Emily, and yet she did all she could to slow down the progress of her consumption. This was the chief reason Anne begged Charlotte to go with her to Scarborough: as well as being a town well known and well loved by Anne, it was also famous for the healing waters of its spa. Anne knew that she could not be cured, but she hoped that the waters would give her more time to live; as she herself said in a letter to Ellen Nussey in April 1849:

“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.”

Thus it was on May 24th 1849 that Anne travelled to Scarborough, via York, accompanied by Charlotte Brontë and their friend Ellen Nussey. It soon became clear, if it wasn’t at the moment they set off, that Anne was too ill for the waters to have any effect: Anne had not come to Scarborough to heal, she was there to die.

Anne Brontë died at 2pm on May 28th 1849, with Charlotte and Ellen by her side. Here is my account of her passing from my book In Search Of Anne Brontë:

“Monday morning, the 28th of 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 and apologised for her slowness and clumsiness. ‘Don’t be sorry’, said Anne, ‘you did your best’.

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.”

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.

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 fairytale 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 she could see chasing after the 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 depth 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.”

At two o’clock on Monday the 28th of May, 1849, with bravery, stillness, certainty, and love, Anne Brontë died.”

Let us remember the courage and genius of Anne Brontë today and always. I hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.