The Funeral of Benjamin Harrison Wolfe

I think the Asheville I knew died for me when Ben died. I have never forgotten him and I never shall. I think that his death affected me more than any other event in my life . . . . Ben — he was one of those fine people who want the best and highest out of life, and who get nothing — who die unknown and unsuccessful.                                            –Thomas Wolfe to Mabel Wolfe Wheaton

The Great Influenza Pandemic of 1918 claimed over 20 million lives, including that of Benjamin Wolfe. Wolfe was one of fifteen Asheville residents who died from the “Spanish Flu” in October of 1918.

Much has been made of the relationship between Thomas Wolfe and his editor, Maxwell Perkins. And rightfully so. But there is perhaps another relationship that sculpted Wolfe as a writer more. This was his relationship with his older brother, Ben. Benjamin Harrison Wolfe was in many ways an unremarkable man. He was unmarried, had no children, and worked a dead-end job for the Asheville Citizen newspaper. Fourteen years earlier he had lost his twin brother, Grover to typhoid fever while in St. Louis for the World’s Fair. His cynicism and sardonic wit are well illustrated through his character Ben Gant in Look Homeward Angel. But he was close to Tom, becoming an idol to him in many ways. He encouraged him in his writings and pushed him to rise above the petty squabbles of the family and the greed and avarice that ripped them apart. Then in 1918 when Tom was at college in Chapel Hill, Ben became ill with the Spanish Flu. Never a paradigm of health, it soon became obvious that Ben would not make it. Tom was sent for and witnessed the sad, bitter passing of his favorite sibling on October 19^th, 1918. The scene of Ben’s passing haunted Wolfe for the rest of his life. On October 20^th, Ben’s funeral was held and Tom’s last tie to youth, his family, and the Asheville that he knew was forever gone…

It was raw October weather – gray and wet. The service had been short, as a precaution against the pestilence which was everywhere. The funeral entered the cemetery. It was a pleasant place, on a hill. There was a good view of the town. As the hearse drove up, two men who had been digging the grave, moved off. The women moaned loudly when they saw the raw open ditch.

Slowly the coffin was lowered onto the bands that crossed the grave.

Wolfe Family Lot in Riverside Cemetery

Again Eugene heard the nasal drone of the Presbyterian minister. The boy’s mind fumbled at little things. Horse Hines bent ceremoniously, with a starched crackle of shirt, to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. “Ashes to ashes-“ He reeled and would have fallen in if Gilbert Gant had not held him. He had been drinking. “I am the resurrection and the life-“ Helen wept constantly, harshly and bitterly. “He that believeth in me-“ The sobs of the women rose to sharp screams as the coffin lid slid down upon the bands into the earth.

Then the mourners got back into their carriages and were driven briskly away. There was a fast indecent hurry about their escape. The long barbarism of burial was at an end. As they drove away, Eugene peered back through the little glass in the carriage. The two gravediggers were already returning to their work. He watched until the first shovel of dirt had been thrown into the grave. He saw the raw new graves, the sere long grasses, noted how quickly the mourning wreaths had wilted. Then he looked at the wet gray sky. He hoped it would not rain that night.

It was over. The carriages split away from the procession. The men dropped off in the town at the newspaper office, the pharmacy, the cigar-store. The women went home. No more. No more.

-Look Homeward Angel

Grave site of Benjamin Harrison Wolfe