Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Once ardent and attached, he became, in a matter of mere months, indifferent and cold; met her protests and pleas, her hundreds of letters, with formal refusals; and in sum, cut the connexion dead.

It was as tho’ he had studied the character of my Willoughby, confronted with an unreconciled Marianne, in his calculated cruelty. [6] Jane refers here to one of the principal thwarted romances in her first novel, Sense and Sensibility , published in 1811. — Editor’s note .

Caro, for her part, became nearly lunatic: stalking her Love by night or day; refusing food, refusing sleep; running out into the street, hatless, to pawn her jewels, with the intention of taking ship alone for God Knows Where, provided it were far from England and the desolation of her heart. Alternately disgusted and enthralled by her persistence, Byron played with the lady as a cat might with a mouse — and reduced her to a state of mental and emotional incapacity.

William Lamb has stood by his wife, but declined to stand again for Parliament. His misery may be observed at any private gathering of the haut ton , by whom he is generally supported.

“Lord Byron does appear to confuse love and hatred,” I admitted to my brother. “There was nothing very tender in his treatment of Miss Twining today — and yet he must be violently in love with her, to attempt a flight to the Border!”

“Perhaps he is simply mad,” Henry replied. “A thread of misfortune dogs the Gordon family — and the men die young and violently, it is said.”

Mad .

A poet touched by the insane.

A diabolical figure of licence and flame, armed with a pen.

Little as I could like him, I should wish to know more of Lord Byron. So few real writers ever come in my way. Perhaps, if I am very lucky, his lordship might yearn to sail again during my stay in Brighton.

SATURDAY, 8 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON

THE LOBSTER PATTIES WERE ALL THAT COULD BE DESIRED, the champagne beyond anything I had yet imbibed; and I fell into a dreamless sleep from the moment my head hit the pillow — despite the considerable degree of noise from both within and without the Castle Inn. A party of officers from the Brighton Camp had stormed the neighbouring King’s Arms publick house, with a number of women from the Cyprian Corps — as the local members of the Muslin Company are known, in deference to their military service — and the echoes of rowdy laughter were the last I heard before insensibility claimed me.

I awoke to a sparkling sea under a brilliant blue sky; a freshening wind; and the chambermaid Betsy, who kindled a fire and placed a pot of tea on a silver tray directly next to my bedside — which unaccustomed luxury quite resigned me to the depravities of the Prince’s chosen pleasure ground. Henry had been correct in turning to Brighton: where I should certainly have fallen into melancholy at Lyme, nursing my grief for Eliza amidst the desolate cliffs and ravines that mark that wilder coast, I could not help but be cheerful in such a place on such a morning — and hoped that the little Comtesse forgave, and somehow approved, my selfish happiness.

I informed my brother at breakfast that I meant to secure my subscription to Donaldson’s without delay, having left Chawton so swiftly that I had brought little in the way of reading material — only my scribblings of Mansfield Park , in the small hand-sewn booklet of paper I construct for composition. I confess that the thought of sober Fanny Price held little attraction this morning, in the face of Brighton’s charms. She is often a tiresome creature — very nearly as quelling as my sister, Cassandra, when she believes herself to be in the right, which is on almost every occasion; and did I open the composition book, I should be certain to hear Fanny’s reproofs ringing in my ears each time I dawdled before a shop-window. It was not to be borne. Therefore I tucked Mansfield Park into a bandbox for safekeeping. I do not expect to require that bandbox until I am forced to return to Hampshire.

“I shall accompany you, Jane,” Henry said with alacrity, “that I might have a glance at the morning papers — and learn whether any of my acquaintance are in town.”

Donaldson’s being but a few steps across the Steyne, our object was very soon achieved. It was a handsome establishment, equal to any circulating library I had experienced in London, and far surpassing those of Bath — elegant, airy, and possessed of a large collection of books neatly bestowed on its shelves. The principal papers and important periodicals were arranged on broad tables, for the greater ease of perusal; and an extensive suite of rooms, becomingly draped and fitted out with occasional chairs, led to apartments at the rear, where card parties were held.

“We are pleased to offer musical recitals on certain evenings,” Miss Jennings, the excessively genteel proprietress, informed me; “and I think you will find the company most select. Madame Valmy, late of Milan, is to sing airs in the Italian for us tonight.”

“And the subscription?”

“Is five shillings the week,” she returned — which dear sum I offered her with an indifference I should not have been equal to, a few years since. The return on my labour of love, however — my investment on the ’Change of novel-writing — permits me these little luxuries. I have been so happy in the publick’s reception of Pride and Prejudice , which may actually run to a second edition, as to observe a set of the volumes prominently displayed among Miss Jennings’s offerings.

When her clerk had pocketed my fee, and written my name in the subscribers’ book, I enquired with affected carelessness, “I see that you have that interesting novel everyone is talking of — Pride and Prejudice . I wonder you may keep it on your shelves!”

“Indeed, I believe the story to be all that is charming,” Miss Jennings said complacently, “ — tho’ there are some who will insist it is unpardonably vulgar. To be forever speculating on the matter of fortune in marriage is to appear unpleasantly mercenary — for even if the two are inseparable, it does not do to say so. I confess there is just that indelicacy in the notion of husband-hunting that argues against the work having sprung from a lady’s pen, however boldly the papers may have advertized it as such.” [7] The first edition of Pride and Prejudice , published by Thomas Egerton in January 1813, was acknowledged as having been written “by the Author of Sense and Sensibility” — which had been written anonymously “by a Lady.” Later newspaper advertisements transposed these words as: “by Lady A —.,” which gave rise to much speculation regarding the identity of the supposedly noble authoress. — Editor’s note.

“And yet,” I could not resist observing, “so many young ladies profess to enjoy it!”

Miss Jennings’s delicate brows knitted in distress. “Indeed — indelicacy is all the rage! How else might one explain the success of Lord Byron? But it is true that Pride and Prejudice was greatly in request among the ton when it first appeared in January. I spend the better part of the winter in London, you must know, and was wont to hear of it everywhere. And so Donaldson’s purchased several sets of the novel on the strength of my regard — but the volumes are less in request at present, the entire world having already looked into them.”

“That must be sadly distressing for the author!”

“Fame is fleeting, Miss Austen — as even Lord Byron shall discover by and by, I daresay. Should you like to take the set on approval?”