Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Mrs. Fitzherbert was swiftly installed at a neighbouring villa; and within a few years, the architect Mr. Henry Holland was tasked with transforming the farmhouse into a neoclassical Pavilion, complete with a domed rotunda and numerous columns. Christened the Marine Pavilion, it soon acquired two wings, clad in cream-glazed Hampshire tiles, and a conservatory jutting from the rear. Some eight years ago — so Henry informs me — the riding school and stables were begun, structures so vast as to dwarf the Pavilion itself, and constructed quite curiously in the Indian stile. The Prince was three years building these, and his debts mounting all the while. Happily for His Highness, however, he had by this time taken his detested cousin Caroline of Brunswick in marriage, got an heir to the throne, and been accorded a handsome independence by Parliament; and could thus afford to be careless of money matters. [10] Although the Prince of Wales underwent a ceremony of marriage with the devoutly Roman Catholic commoner Maria Fitzherbert in 1786, he did so without the royal consent of his father, George III, and the marriage was thus regarded as illegal — by all but Maria Fitzherbert, presumably. The Prince’s subsequent arranged marriage to his royal cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, was regarded as the legitimate union. The Prince’s detractors continued to refer to him as a bigamist, however. — Editor’s note.

“Sixty horses,” Henry muttered as we crossed the short distance between the Castle and the Royal abode. “ Sixty horses the Regent houses in that stupendous block of stalls, Jane. He has a passion for prime cattle — and for racing, of course. Yet they say he’s grown so fat, he finds it difficult to spring into the saddle. Requires the assistance of four grooms , two at each Royal leg.”

“More of a heave than a spring , I collect.”

We were arrived at the gate, joining a throng of other finely dressed and coiffeured gentlemen and ladies; in any other town a line of carriages and teams, with shouting flambeaux-bearers, should have rolled up to the Pavilion doors; but in Brighton there are few who bother to drive the short distance between one house and the next — even when the house in question is royal. Most of the Regent’s guests have only to step across the Steyne, like ourselves, in their slippers and shawls.

I could not allow myself to regard the finery all about me; I should suffer a pang of mortification at my own simple black silk, which appeared as incongruous amidst the paler colours of May as a vulture got among turtledoves. More than one of our fellow guests looked askance at Henry and me — as tho’ we could not possibly be wanted here, and must be forcing ourselves on the Regent’s notice. I knew none of them, and cared less for their opinion; and my brother’s arm supported me the length of the gravel sweep. After an interval, we achieved the front portico under its imposing dome; the massive doors were propped open to permit a flood of lanthornlight to spill out upon the marble steps; and we joined the throng of the Select who trod slowly past the line of footmen arrayed in buff and blue.

Henry presented his cards of invitation coolly enough; an august personage took them in one gloved hand; and before I had time to entirely collect myself, “Mr. Henry Austen, Miss Jane Austen,” were announced to the milling crowd.

What is there to say of the Marine Pavilion, that has not been said by others more intimate with its glories?

The interiors are very fine, in the classical manner, with much gilt and paint picked out à la Robert Adam; the furnishings, too, are of the latest mode — with winged gryphons and curving swans at the corner of every console table; and the walls of a certain gallery are remarkable for their hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, so intriguing and exotic in the boldness of its colours, and the strangeness of its figures, as to transport one to an Oriental clime. Here there are bamboo sophas, and japanned cabinets; Ming porcelain, and pagodas; and most startling of all — statues of fishermen dressed in Chinese silk, large as life and posed in niches built to purpose. The Regent, it is said, has a passion for the Exotic, and for the acquisition of fine things; for pictures in oils brought from every corner of Europe, and for snuffboxes, enamels, clockwork birds — for jewels of exquisite craftsmanship, which he bestows as the merest baubles on the ladies who excite his favour. The Pavilion, therefore, is less notable in its mere mortar and paint than for the objects placed in profusion on every surface: one could wander among them a se’ennight, and not be satisfied in their study. [11] Jane’s description of the Marine Pavilion appears almost quaint to a present-day reader, reflecting as it does a simpler palace long since razed. The Chinese wallpaper she mentions, however, is credited with having inspired the Regent’s subsequent renovation of the Pavilion into the present exotic folly. — Editor’s note.

One might wander, I should say, if one did not swoon within a quarter-hour from the excessive heat of the Pavilion itself. The Regent abhors a chill; and requires his rooms to be as raging as a blast-furnace at every season of the year. There are fires in each of the principal rooms, and braziers of hot coals line the long passages; add to this a crowd of some two hundred of Brighton’s Fashionables, and the resulting swelter is easily credited. I was soon wilting from the heat, the mixture of perfumes and pomades, the scents of warmed wine and of hothouse flowers, which were massed at every side; the odour of humanity in too close proximity; and the smells of food: pineapples and fish soup and the tiny, fragile figures of roasted ortolans —

“There is George Hanger,” Henry murmured in my ear as he handed me a glass of champagne. “What an old villain, to be sure! You will know him by his hook of a nose, his lean frame, and his inveterate look of a satyr. They do say as it was he who arranged the illegal marriage of the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert seven-and-twenty years ago — procured the priest, and held the branch of candles at the midnight service!”

His was a raddled and dissipated face, much cragged and lined; he was famous for his patronage of the Fancy — the sport of boxing — for his military service during the late war in the American colonies; and for his general lack of sense. As I watched, one crabbed hand reached for the delicate pink silk of a lady whose rump was turned towards him, entirely ignorant of it; he pinched some portion of her flesh, and I observed the poor creature to jump out of her skin.

“Keep your distance, Jane,” Henry chortled. “I doubt even the weeds of mourning would preserve you from such a roué!”

“Henry,” I said faintly, “is there any purpose to this soirée beyond standing about and sampling the overwhelming expanse of food? Is there to be singing? I had heard the Prince was fond of playing the violincello with his orchestra. Or do we sit down to cards, perhaps? Is there to be an address by the Regent? Is His Highness anywhere within sight?”

“Not that I can observe,” my brother replied. “I suppose we might make a push to see the other rooms — it is the Marine Pavilion, after all, and one ought to explore the length and breadth of it when such an opportunity offers — I cannot imagine we shall ever set foot within the place again!”

“You go,” I urged him. The heat was proving more than my black silk or the beaded band of ribbon about my carefully dressed curls could support. I was certain I felt a drop of moisture working its way down one temple — and I would not be discovered by a member of the ton in a red-faced state of vulgarity. “I shall endeavour to find a cooler spot, perhaps by a window — tho’ none of them appear to be open.”