Just like Jane Austen, grandees and gallants eagerly fill Bath’s Assembly Rooms
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SANDRA LAWRENCE
When my partner Tony Mitton discovered the Regency Ball, the culmination of Bath’s annual Jane Austen Festival to be held in the Assembly Rooms, I was as giddy as one of Jane’s heroines. The opportunity to dress up in Empire line costume, wear an ostrich feather, tap people with my fan and dance the night away in the very room that Jane herself did nearly 200 years ago was just too delicious to refuse. We booked immediately, though others to whom I sent the information were less enthusiastic.
Maybe I should clarify that. My girlfriends were almost unanimously enthralled; it was the boys who were less keen. Thankfully, Tony is a Game Guy, always happy to enter into the spirit of an occasion. Perhaps he knows what all men should—that there isn’t a chap in existence who doesn’t look better in boots and tight breeches—whether coupled with a tailcoat and frilly shirt a la Mr. Darcy, or braided regimentals and golden epaulettes like the dastardly Mr. Wickham.
I was gripped with Regency Fever; a veritable flurry of Internet searches for ribbons and lace and parasol suppliers. A few little concerns niggled me though. Would I be expected to come armed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of cotillions and quadrilles? How would the whole costume thing work? Was it a case of finding “something that will do” or would the organizers be what a friend of mine so graphically calls “authenti-nazis,” sent into apoplexies over Velcro?
Turns out it’s a happy combination of the two. The organizers, cannily a costume-hire company, make fabulous, authentic outfits for sticklers such as Hampton Court Palace in their day-job, but there is no obligation—or even suggestion—that you have to hire or buy from them. The dress code is Regency, and you are expected to attire yourself accordingly, but no one will turn you away if your gown has (heavens!) a hidden zipper or your reticule’s from the wrong year.
The great thing about Regency costume is that virtually everyone looks good in it. The sweeping Empire lines are flattering to all, and, as both long and short hair was stylish, hairstyles aren’t a problem. If all else fails, a floppy turban with a giant ostrich feather looks sumptuous while hiding a multitude of sins. Yes, they wore corsets, and if you’re really into the look you can choose to wear one—but frankly I didn’t bother (mainly, I admit, because I didn’t want to restrict any food consumption). Flat, ballet-style pumps make the whole evening a comfortable affair.
Men’s dress is more difficult, and Tony decided to hire his, to be collected on the morning of the ball, which meant nothing for him to carry. Some of it was a bit big but they were happy to get out the needle and thread, even to the point of buttonhole-stitching individual eyelets into the back of his waistcoat while he waited.
The optional-but-highly-enjoyable afternoon dance workshop and cream tea was mayhem. I didn’t believe that an hour’s crashing around would be much use for anything, but I was surprised to find just how much stuck when we came to do it “for real” later that evening.
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SANDRA LAWRENCE
I had heard that although it isn’t obligatory, many people turn up at the dance workshop in costume. I’d brought along a muslin day dress, but only when I saw the first costumed people walking around town the night before (going to one of the many events) did I pluck up courage to wear the clobber myself. I’d happily found a made-to-order cherry-red spencer from the Jane Austen Society Web site and bought a bonnet to trim, though I could have just as easily cut down an old straw hat.
The festival lasts an entire week, and includes a bonnet-making workshop the previous Friday, to get ladies ready for the Grand Promenade where hundreds of people in period dress take the air around Bath together, much as Jane herself would have done.
There were several hours before the ball, so Tony and I decided to take a turn around the Circus and the Royal Crescent in our togs. A glorious early autumn sunshine bathed us as we strolled, and we discovered that the notorious reserve we Brits are supposed to have melts away when someone’s in costume. Everyone wanted to talk to us. It was very jolly indeed.
‘IT WAS THE NEAREST I HAVE EVER COME TO FEELING AS THOUGH I HAD STEPPED BACK IN TIME’
I spent a long time trying to get my hair right for the ball. My “Miss Bingley” red velvet dress and pearl tiara slipped on in seconds, but I wrestled with those bloomin’ ringlets for ages while Tony paced the room in his satin waistcoat and white stock. Now I know why they had servants.
The twilight walk up to the Assembly Rooms and our arrival was, to quote a cliché, magical. Costumed figures gathered on the stone pavement, lit in pools by sparse streetlamps, waiting to be welcomed by the master of ceremonies. One couple even arrived in a horse-drawn carriage.
I dread to think what it was like with the 800 dancers the Assembly Rooms would have held in their heyday. There were just 320 of us trying to dance together, and even then it was very, very crowded. If nothing else, we were getting a taste of how popular such events were.
There were more women than men, by the way. But there were still a lot of men—well over a third, I’d guess, and all, old and young, entered into the spirit of the evening, even given the immense heat. It would have been seriously frowned upon for a man to remove his jacket in Austen’s day, though the ladies at least got to flutter fans. I suspect the moustachioed hussars in their fabulous frogged regimentals and several foot-long satin sashes were regretting their choice—but they held out, and looked staggering.
My fears about the dances melted. They were called—much like a cèilidh—to a live, costumed orchestra. I recognized a couple of the dances from TV adaptations, and, every so often, when I became familiar enough with the patterns to look up, the effect was startling. A room full of dancing couples, beneath dimmed chandeliers, surrounded by strategically-placed candles, was uncanny—the nearest I have ever come to feeling as though I had stepped back in time.
We never got around to learning the original Regency games in the Card Room, fascinating though they looked. There was just too much to do. Not least, to eat. The food, thank goodness, was not slavish period copy. Stuffed pig snout, deep-fried coxcombs and Cheddar cheese with mites just don’t cut it for me. There were nods to the Regency palate—lemon syllabub, for example, and marzipan fruits, but it was a period-feel modern menu. Phew.
It’s another cliché to say that it all ended too soon, but it really did. The last dance was announced and even Tony (who had a fever and would spend the rest of the week in bed) was disappointed. It probably sounds odd, but I experienced some difficulty trying to adapt to the 21st century as we sat on the train back to London the following day.
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SANDRA LAWRENCE
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DANA HUNTELY
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