Good morrow, dear readers. Many of my American readers are likely awakening from their turkey comas; my family is struggling with our lasagne coma. (Yes, we have lasagne for Thanksgiving dinner.) However, I hope every one of my dear readers enjoyed Netherfield Ball Day (otherwise known as November 26th to the non-Austen-enlightened world)!
Balls in Georgian England must have been very different from how they appear in the adaptations. I have already pointed out the entirely too bright lighting in the 1995 BBC mini-series, 2005 is a bit closer in that aspect, but neither movie demonstrates the heat of so many bodies and so many candles contained in one space. Or the smoke of those candles and the fires gathering along the ceiling, nor the inconvenience of the heat warping the candles in the chandeliers, dripping wax on the attendees. And these are but a sample of that which cannot translate into movie format, though would have been either obvious or taken for granted amongst Austen’s contemporary readers.
Since sewing a gown suitable for such an occasion would take at least a fortnight, the first time I reread Pride & Prejudice in the Amish community, Caroline’s and Louisa’s sending the invitations a mere six days before the dance struck me as very rude. I have since found several etiquette books from the period stating a fortnight’s notice before a ball is the minimum acceptable, allowing time for guests to arrange horses and alter wardrobes. Thus, the Bingley sisters’ invitations made plain their contempt of the very ones they invited.
Furthermore, Georgian England was prior to the invention of deodorants and anti-perspirants, prior to dry cleaners and washing machines, and – in most cases – prior to indoor plumbing. Yes, some were experimenting with such a concept, which would have been rudimentary – rather like our gravity flow spigot, from a spring on the other side of the hill, on the back porch of our cabin in the Amish community. And in London and Town, casks of water (for drinking, cooking, and cleaning) were delivered to the townhouses each morning, and of course, the nightmen would collect and carry away the brown water waste in their wagons during the early morning hours. When water is that hard to come by, you use it sparingly.
Daily baths in deep tubs would be exceedingly rare. A high enough output spring on the hill behind Pemberley, could have gravity fed spigots on the upper floors along with rudimentary hot water heating systems – a reservoir over a fire box, possibly piped into a bathing chamber. But in Town, Darcy House would rely on servants carrying up heated water from the kitchens. I cannot imagine even ODB would indulge in a hip bath more than once or twice a week, using the basin and sponge bathing method between times.
Also, taking so long to make, gowns were absolutely reworn, reworked, dyed, and repurposed, and that is not even considering their lack of our modern laundry conveniences. Gowns, waistcoats, topcoats, and outerwear were aired, dusted with scented powder, and spot cleaned after wearing to prevent body odours from setting into the fabric, and then were refreshed and pressed in preparation for a second wearing. But with the heat of the candles, the crush of bodies, and the exercise of dancing, each individual BO, cologne, and perfume would blend with the smoke, the smell of the candles, the foods, etc. I cannot tell you how many times I would use my youngest children as an excuse to flee such a noisome confluence of odours in the community.
‘Tis true, the Georgians likely never noticed the stink of a ballroom, dinner party, theatre, church, or any other gathering – just like the Amish never noticed. But I would guess, were we to sudden drop into a Regency ballroom – as much as we love dressing in our empire-waisted cosplay, dancing the English country-dances, having white soup with dinner, and a hedgehog for dessert – most of us would run gasping for fresh air within but a half-hour within the stifling rankness of that ballroom.
However, I shall always cherish the ball at Netherfield, as one of my few beloved moments of our time in the Amish centres around my family having our own Netherfield Ball on the twenty-sixth of November. My three eldest daughters sewed empire-waisted gowns from solid colour cotton; the boys wore their Sunday shirts and pants; and the younger girls and I found pretty dresses from the local thrift store. We super scrubbed the house in preparation, made a white soup (cream of chicken), and baked some cupcakes and cookies to serve with our tea. My husband played his guitar (yes, that’s a no-no for the Amish), or we would all sing together, as we took turns dancing in the living room of our cabin. My three oldest sons – 11, 9, & 7 (the baby was only 2) – honoured their sisters, and mama, by standing up with us – and never once did they call any of us tolerable.
That evening is one my most treasured memories as a mother: my children laughing, dancing, and smiling, recreating a fancy ball in the simplest of circumstances.
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