Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

If not April of 1811, then, the illness came upon Eliza soon after: a mass in the breast, that grew until it might almost have formed another — with tenderness, increasing pain, and suppuration. She had watched over her mother’s dying of the selfsame malady, years since. She recognised the Enemy.

My incorrigible Eliza. My gallant friend. A word for gentlemen of high courage — but courage she brought to this final battle, knowing full well she would never triumph. The summer months of 1812 she spent in travel — relished two weeks in the sea air of Ramsgate in October — wished me joy of Pride and Prejudice ’s sale to Mr. Egerton in November (which met with decided success at its publication this winter among the Fashionables of the ton !) — and by Christmas was rapidly declining.

And Henry?

I might have said that he has not the mind for Affliction; he is too busy; too active; too sanguine. All the increasing cares of banking — my Naval brother Frank being now a partner in Henry’s concern — and the activity necessary to a gentleman in the prime of his life, must inevitably attach Henry to the world. Add to this, that Eliza is fully ten years my brother’s senior, and that the gradual progression of the disease has offered an interval for resignation and acceptance — and we may apprehend the steadiness with which Henry meets his impending loss. And yet — his summons to me surely augurs an unquiet mind, a soul in need of comfort. To part with such a companion as Eliza! — Who, though she gave him no child, brought him endless cheer and laughter from the first day he met her, as a boy of fifteen, when she descended à la comtesse on the Steventon parsonage, and dazzled us all within an inch of our lives.

“I believe Uncle Henry intends to give up Sloane Street,” Edward observed as we rolled into Bagshot. “He claims he cannot bear to meet with my aunt’s memory at every stair and corner.”

“Better to remove from London, then,” I managed, my throat constricted, “for Eliza shall haunt every bit of it.”

I HAVE KNOWN THE JOURNEY FROM CHAWTON TO RUN FULL twelve hours, when leisure permitted; but we were to have no dawdling nuncheon, no walking before the coachman in admiration of April flowers, no pause for fine views as we descended the final stage into the Metropolis. Barely eight hours elapsed from the moment I bade farewell to Cassandra at the Cottage door, until I found myself alighting in Sloane Street.

We met the surgeon, Mr. Haden, on the threshold — Madame Bigeon being on the point of ushering the good man out, as we ushered ourselves within — and paused, despite a scattering of rain, to learn his opinion.

“I fear she is sinking, Miss Austen,” he informed me sombrely. “A matter of hours must decide it. I have left a quantity of laudanum — you are to give her twenty drops, in a glass of warm water, as she requires it.”

“But Eliza detests laudanum!” I cried. “I have known her dreams to be frightful under its influence.”

“Her agony will be the more extreme without it.” The surgeon doffed his hat to Edward and me, and stepped past us to the street.

“Mademoiselle Jane!” Mme. Bigeon’s elderly voice quavered on the greeting; she gave way that we might enter the hall, her black eyes filled with tears. “At last you are come! I feared — but it is not too late. She sleeps much, yes, but she will wake for you, mon Dieu ! Come to her at once!”

With unaccustomed familiarity — such is the strength of feeling in the face of Eternity — the old Frenchwoman grasped my hand and drew me swiftly up the stairs. I could not stay even to loose my bonnet strings; and that I should be aware of such a nothing on the point of seeing Eliza, must be an enduring reproach. I am ashamed to own it.

Mme. Bigeon hesitated before the bedchamber door; it was ajar, so that I could just glimpse the outline of the bedstead, my brother Henry dozing in a straight-backed chair set up against the wall; and the silhouette of Mme. Marie Perigord — the old woman’s daughter and Eliza’s dresser, her constant reminder of all the glories of France that are gone beyond recall. Manon, as she is called, was seated near the bed, her sharp-featured face thrown into relief by the flame of a single candle; in her hand was a small bowl.

And beyond —

Eliza.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing heavy; a few damp locks of hair escaped from her white cap. There was a peculiar odour on the air — a sweet, sickly smell that emanated from the open wound in her breast, and the great tumor lying malevolently there; no amount of warm compresses or fresh linen could blot out the taint.

I crept softly to the bedside, young Edward hesitating behind me.

Manon rose and drew back her chair. “Monsieur — mademoiselle … I cannot persuade her to take any of the broth. And it is Maman’s best broth, made from a pullet. Five hours it has been simmering on the stove — ”

“Hush,” Henry muttered, as he jerked awake. My brother’s dazed eyes met mine through the shuttered gloom. “Ah — Jane ! You are come at last!”

He rose, and pulled me close; the stale odour of a closed room, and clothes too infrequently exchanged, clung about his person. Henry — who is the nearest example of a Dandy the Austens may claim — had been neglecting himself.

“Praise God you came in time,” he whispered.

“Mademoiselle!” Manon tugged impatiently at my sleeve. “Perhaps you will try? Perhaps she will take some broth from you, hein ?”

“What does it matter?” Henry burst out, worn beyond bearing.

“But she must keep up her strength!” the maid protested.

Pointless to observe that strength would avail her mistress nothing, now.

Manon’s face crumpled into a terrible grimace and she began, painfully, to weep, turning away from the awkward crowd of Austens as though we had caught her at something shameful. Mme. Bigeon swept her daughter out of the room, murmuring softly in her native tongue, half-scolding. I had an idea of the maid’s high pitch of nerves, waiting in that darkened chamber through all the hours of a night and day as her mistress’s life slowly ebbed, ears pricked for the sound of a particular set of horses halting in the street below. How like Eliza to hold on to the last, as though she knew I was hastening towards her!

But was she even aware of my presence?

“Dearest,” Henry whispered, bending over Eliza. “Here is Jane arrived from Chawton.”

Her eyelids flickered; the clouded gaze fixed for an instant on my brother’s face, unseeing. How great a change was come upon that sprite, that eager, winning countenance! And how helpless I felt, unable to save her, to forestall the dreaded end!

I took up the bowl of broth and the silver spoon still warm from Manon’s hand, leaned close to my dying cousin, and whispered, “Come, my darling, and try a little — to please your Jane.”

YOUNG EDWARD RETURNED IN HIS FATHER’S CHAISE THE next morning to Chawton. The rest of us watched with Eliza so long as our spirits would allow, although in truth Henry was never from the sick room. He dozed upright in a chair, regardless of whether the Frenchwomen or I were attending upon his wife. For my own part, I snatched at sleep whenever one of the others relieved me — curling fully clothed on the comfortable bed in the best bedchamber. We ate what we could at odd hours, taking cold meat and tea in the breakfast room; Mme. Bigeon had no heart to cook, or rather her cooking was all for Eliza: possets, puddings, coddled eggs that were returned, one by one, untouched on their plates. Through the hours Eliza shuddered, and turned, her mind beset by the demons brought forth in laudanum; and though Henry and I would have stinted her, she suffered too much when the draughts were denied.