Are you Team Willoughby, or Team Brandon? The enduring legacy of Jane Austen

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the opening sentence of Pride and Prejudice is one of the most frequently quoted and paraphrased in the English language. To say Jane Austen is “iconic” is one of the few instances that most overused word is completely fitting. Massive number of books and academic studies about her and her novels, and the cult-like following, especially in North America, notwithstanding, she is, simply, one of the finest writers, whose books have given joy to millions of people. There are a few misguided souls who confess to hate her, but I am happy to declare myself a fully paid up member of the Janeite cult.

I came under her spell quite early in my life, considering she was not on my Polish secondary’s curriculum. I have been an Anglophile since I was 9 or 10, when I discovered books by Frances Hodgson Burnett, but I missed the 1995 Pride and Prejudice TV series - I think it was shown at a stupid time, like 5pm on Wednesdays, instead of prime-time on Sundays (terrible scheduling was more a rule than an exception). In any case it was nowhere near the popular hit it had been in the UK. It wasn't until I was a student and Emma Thompson's masterful big screen adaptation of Sense and Sensibility, when my friend and I went to the cinema to see it, that I became an ardent fan. We both loved the film and cried happy tears when the dam Elinor Dashwood’s erected to conceal her love for Edward Ferrars finally burst in that glorious proposal scene (and IRL Emma Thompson got together with Greg Wise). Much later, Mompesson House, a wonderful National Trust property in Salisbury’s Cathedral Close, put on Sense and Sensibility exhibition, celebrating 20 years since the film’s premiere. Some of the scenes were filmed inside, such as the one in which Marianne Dashwood throws herself down onto a four-poster bed in floods of tears, having learnt the truth about the cad Willoughby.
This is the bed and brushes on the vanity table:

Mompesson House and Salisbury Cathedral seen through its window:

When I first discovered Austen, I would never have guessed that one day I’d move not just to England, but to Winchester, where she is buried. But I was lucky to live there for nine years, before moving to Salisbury, and visit the charming Hampshire village of Chawton, where she lived and wrote, several times. I explored her house, now a museum, twice. The first time I saw the tiny table on which she wrote, I was very moved.

Jane Austen's House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire

It was here she created so distinctive a world, in her inimitable style, infused with great sense of irony.
The table and modest proportions of the house, when you compare it to the nearby Chawton House, which belonged to her brother Edward, brought home the reality of an unmarried woman's life two centuries ago. Though she enjoyed some satisfaction from her writing while still alive, the mother of the domestic novel, regarded as one of the most important writers to have ever written in English, was published anonymously, and hardly a literary star. It pleases me that now she is famous and at events such as JASNA, a kind of Comic Con for Austen fans, you can choose to wear a badge proclaiming if you are Team Brandon, or Team Willoughby. I am also grateful to feminist writer and activist Caroline Criado-Perez for her successful campaign to put Austen on the 10-pound-note.
After visting Jane Austen's House, you should definitely explore Chawton House, which now houses a unique collection of women's writing, and carries out valuable research. It is a remarkable and beautiful place. which deserves a separate post.

What could be more English than a tearoom decorated with tea cups? It is Cassandra's Cup, a cosy tearoom opposite the museum.

It was 201st anniversary of Jane Austen's death two days ago, so I'll leave you with her sister Cassandra's tribute, which she wrote shortly after her death (source):
I have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have been surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder of every pleasure, the soother of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed from her, and it is as if I had lost a part of myself. I loved her only too well — not better than she deserved, but I am conscious that my affection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent of others; and I can acknowledge, more than as a general principle, the justice of the Hand which has struck this blow.