Contribution
It is a pleasure to serve with you in the Chair, Mr Efford. What a wonderful debate to bring to this Chamber, on which I congratulate the hon. Member for Basingstoke (Luke Murphy). Jane Austen: what a legend, what a genius! She is still inspiring us today, and what an opportunity we have to hear from her directly, as she wanders the streets of Bath in 2025 through a little bit of time travel:
“My dearest Cassandra, you will laugh at me, I am sure, for the rapture in which I write, but I cannot help myself, for Bath is a much changed city from when you and I did grace its fair streets. I shall do but imperfect justice with my pen, but will endeavour to paint in your mind a picture befitting this changed city, which, despite the marching of time, I still find to hold immeasurable beauty.
As I wound through the streets of Bath, I marvelled at the honey-coloured stone, which did glow as pleasantly as ever. But sister, what will truly astonish you is what I did see coming towards me: I would call it a carriage, yet it is a strange mechanical one whose body is silver, and how it moves is beyond my comprehension, as there are no horses to pull it. Goodness! The noise it produced was most dreadful: a mixture of cry and roar such that I was compelled to leap from its path.
There are, too, these strange signs affixed around the town, and for the life of me I cannot decipher their meaning. ‘Clean air zone’ is inscribed upon them—what a peculiar thing to write! Sister, when I uncover their origin and meaning, I will let you know with great haste.
No sooner had I proceeded a little further than my senses were again most violently assailed, for I encountered a most merry band and of women, full of uproarious amusement; one did speak of a ‘hen party’. I shall not attempt to describe their attire, for it would, I fear, defile my pen. You may imagine them as you will, sister, but I shall leave that to you.
They still hold celebrations and festivals in Bath; I watched one where ladies and gentlemen paraded about in coats and costumes of such cut and colour that I felt I had stepped into one of my own chapters. I observed them with all the greatest delight, so imagine my surprise when I found it was being undertaken in my honour. How gratifying to have unconsciously inspired so strong an affection!
You will laugh, but it continues. I inquired, and found this not a singular affair; events across the city are held entirely to commemorate me. Exhibitions in museums and balls of the sort we once danced at are held in grand halls during an annual festival. There is even a museum—they call it the Jane Austen Centre—which informs visitors of my life, work and the manner in which I lived. I ought to be embarrassed, and perhaps I am—but only just a little. Mostly, I am entertained beyond measure.
I am often detained by Bath’s excellent bookshops. One such establishment, Persephone Books, is a publisher devoted to selling neglected fiction and non-fiction text by women authors. It is admirable to see this shop promoting women writers. Imagine if when I struggled to publish my books, I had had such support. I find this accompanied with a certain vexation, though, as I see so very few women’s titles—or, indeed, their characters—within school curricula. The imbalance is unmistakable. The books of men and the stories of their heroes are bound in such numbers that it is most improper. I hear—and I do say it is frightful—that only 5% of GCSE pupils studied a text authored by a women for GCSE literature in 2024. Such figures speak plainly and require no ornament. That books written by women appear so seldom in the curriculum is most unjustifiable.
I then, most unexpectedly, found myself being carried along by a crowd, my legs no longer my own. Hurried to a great stadium and with my curiosity spurring me on I ventured within and behold, what a spectacle presented itself! A number of gentlemen most astonishingly hurled one another across the grass in pursuit of a misshapen ball. They ended up in a most undignified heap, yet the people appeared highly entertained. I, caught up in the fervour, did lend my own voice. That is how I, to my own surprise, became a supporter of Bath Rugby.
Cassandra, how a single city can change so much I cannot easily comprehend, but it is not an unhappy alternative lying before me. Far from it: Bath still leaves my heart fluttering. Until you can come again, you must accept this poor description in place of your own experience, and believe me, as ever, to be your affectionate sister Jane.”
I apologise to all Jane Austen scholars, everybody who loves her and the great author herself for this poor epistle—but my team and I had great fun.