Competition 3425 was prompted by Gill Hornby, a biographer of Jane Austen, telling an audience at the Cheltenham Literature Festival that Jane’s sister Cassandra did the novelist’s reputation a favour by burning most of her letters, and if that hadn’t happened she might have been cancelled: ‘She has become this very vague, hazy figure, like God and Shakespeare…’. You were invited to ‘find’ a letter that had escaped the bonfire.

There was a strong response, though a few entries crossed into sacrilege. The best got something of the tone while casting her in an unexpected light. Tom Adam found her channelling thunderers de nos jours: ‘I grow quite weary of the Hampshire Chronicle. It contrives to fill every advertisement with faces so exceedingly foreign, that I might fancy myself transported to the Indies…’. It was a pity not to have room for Nick Syrett, Richard Warren, Elizabeth Kay, J.C.H. Mounsey, Sue Pickard, Frank Upton, Alan Millard, George Simmers, Paul Freeman and Nicholas Lee, among others. The £25 vouchers go to the following.

My dear Cassandra,

A letter arrived yesterday from the Board of Agriculture, from a gentleman acting upon the instructions of Sir John Sinclair. With considerable temerity, he suggests that – for a considerable fee, to wit, twenty-one guineas – I might ‘mention’ in any forthcoming work, the subject of Cheese. The Board apparently imagines some current revulsion against dairy food, and that those who capture a reader’s imagination would do capital service to the eating as well as the reading public. What next? A sporting contest for a trophy to be known as the Milk Cup?

He tells me that Miss Edgworth has included some references to cheese in a forthcoming novel. Miss Edgworth! I confess I relented, almost at once. Accordingly, I have ascribed a fondness for Stilton and North Wiltshire to a loathsome cleric in my next work, to be entitled Emma. I shamelessly await the arrival of my emolument!

Bill Greenwell

My dear Mr Bonaparte,

Je m’appelle Jane. J’habite à Bath. I write to you employing my aunt’s quill, most conveniently located on my uncle’s bureau. It is my opinion, Mr Bonaparte, that a small man in possession of a grande armée must be in want of a penfriend, especially one with precious information concerning whereabouts of certain ill-prepared British regiments stationed in southern England, idling their time in, as you would say, chercher la femme. Should one care to take a turn around our delightful country, and rid it of its ridiculous monarch, I recommend Lyme Bay, a sheltered harbour and pleasant, ill-defended beauty spot with excellent patisseries. You will locate coded messages (indeed, little else) within the pages of Persuasion and Sanditon. Breathe not a word about this correspondence, I implore you, or suffice to say, my head will not be appearing on any banknotes! Your devoted friend, J.

David Silverman

Dearest Cassandra,

It is a truth universally acknowledged by authors that a reader, having once completed a novel by unfolding it in her imagination, believes herself entitled to suggest improvements. With typical kindness, you, the first reader of my Pride and Prejudice, confine yourself to making but one suggestion concerning its improvement. Kinder still, you preface your suggestion with many generous words upon that part of my story – the social comedy of its opening third – which did meet with your always desired approval. I am sorry to learn that the remainder of my story disappointed – though Mr Darcy’s future as a cruel husband is clearly foreshadowed from his earliest appearances. At your insistence, I shall henceforth halt my tale at Mr Darcy’s wedding to Lizzie, sparing the public, as I cannot, alas, now spare you, those scenes of violent marital intercourse as I derived the utmost pleasure in devising.

Jane

Adrian Fry

Dearest Cassy, you accuse me of making comments of a low, unladylike nature. I am sure I do not know what you mean. Anyhow, when you ask about my ideal man, I imagine Mr Darcy having stupendous balls. They would impress the gentry, and all the ladies would beg for them. Bingley’s would be tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. Darcy embodies Pemberley, with its considerable eminence, rising ground, and swelling streams teeming with life. He has lovely peaches, and his park is ten miles round. Size matters, does it not? If I ever married, it would be to someone I wanted near my Pump Room, a man who would gladly enter my carriage and take me to London and back. And who would be a great proficient at playing my pianoforte. Your devoted sister, Jane. P.S. I expect Darcy’s Bath buns are magnificent, too. So well risen!

Janine Beacham

My dear Cassandra,

This brings my best wishes for your birthday on the 9th of this month. I wish I could be with you, but travel is so hazardous in January, for now we have ceaseless snow and rain and insufferable cold. However, I was able to meet with that gentleman who prefers to remain anonymous, bringing the finished novel with him. As you know, being a highly regarded young clergyman his concern is that his novels would be too frivolous for a man of his profession. And I am happy to accept the authorship and whatever remuneration he offers. He called the book First Impressions which in my opinion was somewhat uninspired. I suggested Pride and Prejudice, which he liked. It is pleasing to feel that I have contributed to the work in a small way.

It might be wise to burn this letter, Cassandra.

Your loving Jane

Sylvia Fairley

No. 3428: Frankenpoem

They Oz you up, your Mandyias.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They give you vast and trunkless legs

A sunken shattered visage too.

So begins Rose Ruane’s Larkin/Shelley mash-up. You are invited to create a fusion of two poems of your choosing (16 lines maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 26 November.