Brontës (68 page)

From the windows of High Syke House Branwell could look down across the fields below to the sprawling church of St Mary Magdalene, which stood isolated, a little way off from the town, in the valley bottom. Beyond the church, the valley opens out into the Duddon estuary, giving distant glimpses of the sea. It was this view of the church, looking towards the sea, that Branwell drew in an idle moment while at Broughton.
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For Branwell, the chief attraction of Broughton-in-Furness was not the town itself but its location. Perhaps a hundred yards above his lodgings was the brow of High Duddon, which gave him spectacular views across the flat sands of the estuary and the pretty River Duddon, rising to the magnificent,
louring mass of Black Combe beyond. William Wordsworth had celebrated both the river and the mountain in his verse.
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From High Duddon, too, Branwell could look across the fells right into the heart of the Lake District where the soon-to-be Poet Laureate still lived at Rydal Mount. Though physically only on its fringes, spiritually Branwell could feel himself to be in the heart of the Lake Poets' country.

With such incentives to do well, Branwell quickly settled down at Broughton-in-Furness, determined to make a good impression on his employers. On 13 March 1840 he wrote to his friend John Brown, the sexton of Haworth and Master of the Three Graces Lodge, whom he addressed as ‘Old Knave of Trumps'. Anxious not to appear too conventional and hardworking, Branwell deliberately ‘spun him a yarn'. There was more to him than met the eye: like Northangerland, Branwell declared that he cloaked his evil designs under a semblance of piety and civility.

If you saw me now, you would not know me, and you would laugh to hear the character the people give me. Oh, the falsehood and hypocrisy of this world! … Well, what am I? That is, what do they think I am? A most calm, sedate, sober, abstemious, patient, mild-hearted, virtuous, gentlemanly philospher, – the picture of good works, and the treasure house of righteous thoughts – Cards are shuffled under the table-cloth, glasses are thrust into the cupboard if I enter the room. I take neither spirits, wine nor malt liquors, I dress in black and smile like a saint or martyr. Everybody says ‘what a good young Gentleman is Mr Postlethwaite's tutor!'… I am getting as fat as Prince William at Springhead and as godly as his friend, Parson Winterbotham – my hand shakes no longer. I ride to the banker's at Ulverston with Mr Postlethwaite and sit drinking tea and talking scandal with old ladies – as to the young ones! – I have one sitting by me just now – fair-faced, blue eyes, dark haired sweet eighteen – she little thinks the devil is so near her!

As if to reiterate the difference between the perfection of character he had assumed at Broughton and his supposedly real, macho self, he proceeded to level a stream of schoolboy obscenities at his ‘friends' in Haworth.

I was delighted to see your note old squire but I do not understand one sentence – you will perhaps know what I mean – you say something about having got a cock & hens – I know you have got a cock & jolly good one too by Jupiter. How are all about you, I long to hear and see them again. How is the
‘Devil's Thumb', whom men call Enoch Thomas, and the ‘Devil in Mourning' whom they call Wm Hartley how are [lacuna] and Billy Brown and the Doctor and him who will be used as the tongs of Hell – him whose eyes Satan looks out of, as from windows – I mean [lacuna] esquire? How are little [lacuna] ‘Longshanks', [lacuna], and the rest of them? Are they married, buried, devilled and damned? When I come I'll give them a good squeeze of the hand; till then I am too godly for them to think of. And that bow-legged fellow who was always asking me – does your p[ric]k stand? – how is his going on or has he lost it altogether? Beelzebub means to make a walking stick of yours. Keep to thy teetotalism, old squire, till I return; that will mend that old body of yours, till I come back, when we will have a puff & a stiffener.
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He signed this letter, ‘The Philosopher'. In stark contrast to his insouciant man-of-the-world image which he was so anxious to impress upon Brown, Branwell added that he meant to continue in the good opinion of the Postlethwaites and their circle at Broughton and, even more tellingly, ‘Of course you won't show this letter; and, for Heaven's sake, blot out all the lines scored with red ink.'
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While Branwell adapted his character to suit his circumstances, with evident success at Broughton, his sisters had put the failures of the last year behind them and were enjoying a holiday. After the usual series of mishaps and delays, caused in part by Aunt Branwell's sudden determination not to have any visitors during the winter months and then relenting, Ellen came over to join them for three weeks in February. Though Charlotte regretted Branwell's absence because he had always enlivened Ellen's visits, his place was more than adequately filled by William Weightman, Patrick's new curate.
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Weightman has become something of a legend in the Brontë story, a ray of light in the doom and gloom which is supposed to have enveloped the tragic family. It has become an accepted part of the Brontë canon that Anne was in love with him and that his early death was a tragedy from which she never recovered.
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There is no evidence at all to prove that this was the case and the few ‘facts' which are usually cited in its support are, at the very least, open to another interpretation.

William Weightman was twenty-six years old and came from the beautiful old Westmorland market town of Appleby.
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From Appleby Grammar School he had gone to the newly founded University of Durham where, according to Patrick Brontë, he obtained ‘both fame and favour', displayed ‘classical attainments of the first order' and graduated as a Bachelor and
Master of Arts. Though Patrick was certainly qualified to judge his curate's academic ability, he seems to have been mistaken about his qualifications. According to the university records, William Weightman only spent two years there. His name appears in the examination pass lists for 1838 and 1839 as ‘unclassified' and in the graduation lists of June 1839 as a Licentiate of Theology and ‘Reverend'. There is no record of his obtaining a higher degree, even after he left the university.
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Patrick had applied to the Bishop of Ripon for a curate and Weightman had been recommended. He therefore came straight from university to his first curacy at Haworth. Although not yet fully ordained, being only a deacon, he began his duties appropriately enough with a baptism and a burial on 19 August 1839.
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From the very first he won the admiration and liking of Patrick, his family and the people of Haworth. Charming, good-looking and possessing both a sense of humour and a natural but unobtrusive sympathy, he carried all before him. Patrick was later to say of him:

His character wore well; the surest proof of real worth. He had, it is true, some peculiar advantages. Agreeable in person and manners, and constitutionally cheerful, his first introduction was prepossessing. But what he gained at first, he did not lose afterwards. He had those qualities which enabled him rather to gain ground.
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The exceptional nature of Weightman's qualities was manifested by the ease with which he rapidly gained a place in the Brontë household. Like his predecessor he lodged at Cook Gate with the Ogden family, but unlike poor Hodgson, he was soon on unusually intimate terms with all the family. What is more, his attentions caused a flutter in more than one female heart at the parsonage. This was particularly obvious while Ellen was staying, when he made ‘frequent and agreeable visits' and took the lead in entertaining the younger members of the family.
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That February he was invited to give a lecture on the classics to the Keighley Mechanics' Institute and he was determined that the young ladies should come to hear him. With his habitual discretion, he arranged for a married clergyman in Keighley, possibly John Collins, to send them an invitation to tea and offer himself as an escort to and from the parsonage. Even with this correct guardianship, it was feared that Patrick and Aunt Branwell would withhold their permission, but the arrangements were
judged acceptable and the party set off in high glee for Keighley. The evening out was only marred by its end: it was midnight before they returned to the parsonage, having walked the four miles each way. Aunt Branwell had prepared hot coffee for the four young ladies but, with a surprising lack of foresight, had not made enough for their two escorts.

Poor Miss Branwell lost her temper, Charlotte was troubled, and Mr Weightman, who enjoyed teazing the old lady, was very thirsty. The great spirits of the walking party had a trying suppression, but twinkling fun sustained some of them.
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On 14 February there was excitement of a different kind when Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Ellen each received her very first Valentine in the morning's post. Again, this was Weightman's doing. He had discovered that none of them had ever had one before so he set to and wrote verses for each of them. Only the titles of three of them are known, but they give an indication of the general tone of each Valentine: ‘Fair Ellen, Fair Ellen', ‘Away fond Love' and ‘Soul divine'. In order to escape detection by the elders, he had then walked ten miles, presumably to Bradford, to post them.
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The intended kindness was typical of the man, as were the lengths to which he went to ensure that his generous gesture was effective. The girls had no difficulty in detecting his hand in the verses and, evidently touched as well as delighted, replied in kind.

A Rowland for your Oliver

We think you've justly earned;

You sent us each a valentine,

Your gift is now returned.

We cannot write or talk like you;

We're plain folks every one;

You've played a clever trick on us,

We thank you for your fun.

Believe us when we frankly say

(Our words, though blunt are true),

At home, abroad, by night or day,

We all wish well to you.

And never may a cloud come o'er

The sunshine of your mind;

Kind friends, warm hearts, and happy hours,

Through life we trust you'll find.

Where'er you go, however far

In future years you stray,

There shall not want our earnest prayer

To speed you on your way …
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The return Valentine was careful to adopt a safely bantering tone, which accepted Weightman's verses as flattering but insincere. However, despite the popular belief that it was Anne who fell in love with the new curate, there is considerable evidence to suggest that it was actually Charlotte who fell for his charms. Weightman had just that combination of good looks, humour and intellect which would have appealed to the woman who had rejected Henry Nussey because ‘I could not sit all day long making a grave face before my husband – I would laugh and satirize and say whatever came into my head first'.
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Charlotte certainly bestowed more than ordinary attention on him. It was she, not Anne, who decided to paint his portrait.

The sittings became alarming for length of time required, and the guest had to adopt the gown, which the owner was very proud to exhibit, amusing the party with his critical remarks on the materials used, and pointing out the adornments, silk velvet, etc.
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Though the finished portrait does not appear to have survived, there is a delightful pencil drawing by Charlotte which would appear to be a preparatory study for it. It shows a good-looking young man in profile, with a straight nose and generous mouth, long side-burns almost reaching to his chin and hair swept forward in the style of the day which Branwell also adopted. He is wearing an academic gown and beside him there is a pile of carefully placed ecclesiastical books, indicating his clerical status. Later, Charlotte was to take the trouble to paint another portrait, this time of Agnes Walton, a lady in Appleby with whom Weightman gave it to be understood that he was in love.
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In addition to these unusual attentions, Charlotte's letters from this period are full of Weightman's sayings and doings, even though such things
had never merited her notice when performed by her father, brother or Hodgson. ‘Little Haworth has been all in a bustle about Church-rates since you were here –', she told Ellen, describing a meeting on 26 March 1840:

we had a most stormy meeting in the School-room – Papa took the chair and Mr Collins and Mr Weightman ^{acted as his supporters one on each side – There was violent opposition – which set Mr Collins' Irish blood in a ferment and if Papa had not kept him quiet partly by persuasion, and partly by compulsion he would have given the Dissenters their Kail through the reek (a Scotch proverb which I'll explain another time – He and Mr Weightman both bottled up their wrath for that time but it was only to explode with redoubled force at a future period – We had two sermons on Dissent and its consequences preached last Sunday one in the afternoon by Mr Weightman and one in the evening by Mr Collins all the Dissenters were invited to come and hear and they actually shut up their chapels and came in a body; of course the church was crowded. Miss Celia Amelia [Weightman] delivered a noble, eloquent high-Church, Apostolical succession discourse – in which he banged the Dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly – I thought they had got enough for one while, but it was nothing to the dose that was thrust down their throats in the evening – a keener, cleverer, bolder and more heart-stirring harangue I never heard than that which Mr Collins delivered from Haworth Pulpit last Sunday Evening – he did not rant – he did not cant he did not whine, he did not snivel: he just got up and spoke with the boldness of a man who is impressed with the truth of what he is saying who has no fear of his enemies and no dread of consequences – his Sermon lasted an hour yet I was sorry when it was done … Mr Weightman has given another lecture at the Keighley Mechanic's Institute, and Papa has also given a lecture – both are spoken of very highly in the Newspaper and it is mentioned as a matter of wonder that such displays of intellect should emanate from the Village of Haworth ‘situated amongst the bogs and mountains and until very lately supposed to be in a state of semi-barbarism.' Such are the words of the newspaper.
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