Stephanie Barron - Jane and The Wandering Eye

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but if I am not mistaken — are you not Mrs. Henry Austen?”

We turned — and observed a gentleman of some sixty years at least, and quite extraordinary in his aspect. He was short, and lithe, and fussily dressed, in a sky-blue jacket of sarcenet, a lavender silk waistcoat overlaid with bronze cherries, and light-coloured pantaloons well tucked into glowing Hessians. The stiff white points of his collar were so high as to disguise his ears, and render any effort at turning the head quite beyond his power; and the arrangement of his neckcloth must surely rival the Beau’s. [21] Jane refers here to the most celebrated dandy of this period, George Bryan “Beau” Brummell (1778–1840), who set the trend in male dress. — Editor’s note. But all this would be as nothing — merely the trappings of a dandy more suited to a gentleman half his age — in comparison with the excessive ugliness of his features. The man resembled nothing so much as a baboon.

“Mr. Cosway, to be sure!” the little Comtesse cried, and extended her hand with every affectation of delight. “What felicity, in finding oneself not entirely without friends! How come you to leave St. James, my dear sir, in such a season?”

“A touch of the gout, Mrs. Austen, which I must for-fend — though I confess, with the end of the world so close upon us all, it hardly seems worth the trouble.”

“Indeed,” Eliza replied smoothly, with barely a flicker of an eyelid at the gentleman’s singularity of address. “One should meet any eventuality, extraordinary or commonplace, at the absolute pitch of health. But I must have the honour of acquainting you with my husband’s sister, Miss Austen. Jane — Mr. Richard Cosway, the principal painter to His Majesty the Prince of Wales.”

My senses were all alive; for though I may despise the Prince with every pore of my being, I am not so determined in dislike as to learn nothing of a gossip. In silence, I made Mr. Cosway a courtesy. The face, the figure, were comprehensible to me now, from several decades’ worth of caricatures in the papers. This was the extraordinary Cosway — whose cunning art at portraiture, particularly of a miniature kind, had swept the fashionable world; whose weekly salons in Pall Mall had been the sole entertainment worthy of fashionable attendance, throughout the past two decades; whose pretty little wife, full twenty years his junior, had so captivated the great with her accomplishments on the harp and at the easel. This was Richard Cosway, who followed Mesmer, and practised Animal Magnetism, and all manner of superstitious folly — now hard upon the brink of old age. [22] According to historian Roy Porter, both Maria and Richard Cosway indulged in the vogue for hypnotism, and subscribed to the lectures of John B. de Mainauduc, a pupil of the French Dr. Mesmer (1734–1815), who founded “animal magnetism.” — Editors note. Trust my dear Eliza to claim acquaintance with every notable oddity in the kingdom!

“And have you any news of your delightful wife?” my sister was enquiring, with becoming solicitude. “Maria is quite a prisoner, I presume, in the Monster’s court?”

“Alas, I fear that she is — and it seems that any transport between England and the Continent is at a standstill. The outbreak of hostilities has overthrown my poor Maria’s labours entirely. She had embarked, as no doubt you know, upon a project of sketching the vast collection in Buonaparte’s Louvre, for the edification of mankind. And hers was so admirable a project — the Prince of Wales himself subscribed, my dear Mrs. Austen — but it has come to naught. And so Mrs. Cosway has entirely quitted Paris.” [23] Napoleon’s wholesale confiscation of great works of art throughout Europe, and their assemblage in Paris, had occasioned Maria Cosway’s project of recording for posterity every item in the newly opened Louvre. She embarked on the effort in late 1801. A proficient artist in her own right, Mrs. Cosway was at this time estranged from her husband. She did not return to England until 1817, when Cosway was in his dotage. — Editor’s note.

“But when is she likely to return? Can nothing be done for her present relief?”

Mr. Cosway hesitated. His eyes roved the room as if in search of acquaintance. “I may say that my wife is not without resources. She has made the best of her situation — and has gone to Lyons, for the purpose of founding a school for the education of young ladies in the Catholic faith. You know, of course, that she was born in Italy, and has always been a subject of Rome.”

“But of course,” Eliza replied dubiously. “And how long do you intend, sir, to dazzle Bath with your presence?”

“Not above three months, I assure you. I am bound for Brighton at Easter.”

“How delightful!” Eliza cried. “I long to visit Brighton! What schemes and dissipation — the chariot races on the shingle! The breakfasts out-of-doors! The fireworks and expeditions — the crush of the balls! How vast an acquaintance one must cultivate, too, in the Prince’s household train. The demands, I fear, are unending.”

“The amusements of Brighton are as nothing to me , who must suffer from the want of solitude that such a pleasure party demands; but I cannot help be a slave to the Prince,” Mr. Cosway observed, with a grotesque smile. “The decoration of the Pavilion, the maintenance of his collections — the imperative of Art! — are the foremost objects of my soul. My own poor daubs must be as nothing. I have not the nature for self-interest, I own — I am all devotion to the people I love.”

“I am sure it does you very great credit, Mr. Cosway,” the Comtesse replied, with what I thought to be admirable forbearance. “We must hope to solicit your society a little, perhaps, while yet you remain in Bath.”

And with a bow and a flourish of his handsome grey melton hat, Mr. Richard Cosway left us.

“What a ridiculous fellow, to be sure,” Eliza told me, “though quite accomplished in his line.”

“How come you to be acquainted with him, Eliza?”

“My godfather, Mr. Hastings, sat to Cosway for a miniature some years past,” she said carelessly, “but I formed a true attachment to the enchanting Mrs. Cos-way. Maria had all of London at her feet, you know, in the ‘eighties. We met in France, I recollect, in ‘91 or ‘92—just after the birth of her little girl, whom she abandoned to her husband’s rearing.” [24] While in Paris in the 1790s, Maria Cosway enchanted no less a personage than Thomas Jefferson, who is thought to have fallen (platonically) in love with her. The two corresponded for years after both had returned to their respective countries. — Editor’s note.

“How very singular!”

“It was. He suffered from the conviction of Maria’s infidelity, and thought the child to be anyone’s but his own — and so she left him, for nearly four years.”

“Four years! And the child?”

“She fell dead of a fever not long after Maria’s return — in ‘96, or thereabouts.” My poor Eliza’s voice must tighten; for she knew what it was to lose an only child.

“I have always observed, Eliza, that those who seem to possess a life graced with distinction, and every comfort or happy mark of Fortune, may conceal in fact the deepest sorrows,” I reflected. “How unhappy for the entire family!”

“Yes — but as Cosway can never survive a tragedy without turning it to account, he painted a portrait of the child on her deathbed, poignant in the extreme; and had Maria not forbidden it, he should have sold the engravings in the very streets! The man is the soul of self-promotion, Jane — has sunk art in the mire of commerce — and yet can protest that he is all selflessness and sacrifice! Were I shockingly ill-bred, I should laugh aloud! But it is of no consequence. Now his wife has deserted him, all his fashionable friends have quite thrown him over, I believe.”