#merchant maggie | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mimisempai · 4 months

Text

Let the words flow

Summary

When you've spent so many years keeping certain words from passing your lips, even after confessing them several times, it's still hard to let them flow naturally.

But an unexpected downpour can sometimes help, can't it?

Notes

Just them in love under the rain...

On Ao3

Rating G - 871 words

Returning from the restaurant, they walked quietly along Whickber Street, taking advantage of the mild evening for a little digestive stroll.

A light gust of wind made Aziraphale tighten the collar of his coat, and as he raised his head, he noticed Crowley watching him, a slight smile on his lips.

Raising a questioning eyebrow, he asked, "What's the matter, something on my face?"

Crowley replied, "Nothing, I'm just..." then, finding himself ridiculous, he interrupted himself before continuing, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "Nothing, I'm just looking at the most beautiful angel in the universe."

Aziraphale chuckled, then nudged him with his shoulder and said, "Idiot."

Then he walked away, and Crowley followed suit, amused to see that his compliment had had an effect, judging by the slight blush on the angel's cheekbones.

Arriving at his side, he took Aziraphale's hand, and as they intertwined their fingers, he was surprised to feel that, for once, it was the angel whose skin was cooler than his own.

Without a second thought, he slipped their intertwined hands into his jacket pocket and immediately felt the angel's thumb caress the back of his hand as he said softly, "Thank you, my dear."

The demon was about to lean forward to kiss him when he felt a drop, then two, fall on his face, and when he looked up at the same time as the angel, he saw that by the time they had left the restaurant, the clouds had gathered over their heads.

By the time they realized this, the few drops had become a downpour and they were drenched in two seconds.

He was about to raise his hand to perform a small miracle, but Aziraphale stopped him, saying, "No, Crowley, there are too many people, you can't do that here!"

Crowley looked around and saw that the angel was right, they were in the most crowded part of the street and even though people were busy taking cover, there were all those in the shops who could see them through the window, not to mention the shopkeepers.

"Come on, let's hurry!"

Aziraphale held out his hand, and despite the rain, despite the fact that he was soaked, he had bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and a broad smile on his lips. Just like the night of the merchant's ball when, despite Crowley's warnings, he'd seemed so happy to drag Crowley into the dance.

Then Crowley acted on impulse and he grabbed Aziraphale's hand, but instead of following him in a frantic dash to the bookshop, he pulled teh angel to him, wrapping his free arm around his waist.

"Crowley, what's wrong with you?"

"Dance with me, Angel."

Crowley led him in a waltz in the downpour, spinning him at a frenetic pace, pleased when Aziraphale finally laughed and exclaimed, "You're crazy! You're so crazy, but I love you!"

At the confession, Crowley paused and, after releasing the angel, cupped his face between his hands and pressed his lips to his in a passionate kiss, which the angel immediately returned with equal fervor, wrapping his arms around the demon's waist.

They continued to spin and kiss in the rain until they were inevitably forced to separate to catch their breath.

They remained forehead to forehead, panting and then bursting into light laughter.

"You really are a fine pair of romantic fools, thanks for the show."

Together, they turned their heads toward Nina, who accompanied Maggie, both of them sheltered under an umbrella.

Crowley made an exaggerated curtsy and replied, "Always ready to entertain the crowd. At least it'll give you something to gossip about in the morning."

Nina shook her head and resumed her walk with Maggie.

Then the demon's attention was drawn to Aziraphale, who was chuckling lightly beside him. Crowley watched him in silence until the angel noticed. Aziraphale then stopped and asked him as he had earlier in the evening, "What's the matter, do I really have something on my face this time?"

Crowley shook his head and then tried to say the words he had not wanted to say the first time for fear of ridicule, but despite all the good will in the world, the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

Aziraphale, seeing his trouble, approached and, after pushing back a soaked lock of hair that had fallen across the demon's forehead, cupped his cheek and asked gently, "Crowley, what's wrong?"

Crowley leaned his cheek into the angel's palm and answered quietly, the words finally coming out under the soft touch, "Nothing, I just love you."

It wasn't the first time he'd said those words, but after so many years of holding them back, they still sometimes struggled to come out naturally.

His momentary embarrassment was quickly forgotten, however, as he was rewarded with a smile the brightness of which could have dispelled all the clouds before the angel rose to his tiptoes and muttered, "Vavoom..." against his lips.

Then, as the demon began to laugh, his laughter quickly faded as Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley's in another passionate kiss.

The kiss lasted so long they didn't notice the rain had stopped.

Whickber Street would certainly have something to gossip about the next day.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2)

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GOS2Spoilers

48 notes · View notes

nikethestatue · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed.

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries.

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station.

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off, the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am.

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed.

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought.

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust.

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating.

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply.

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back.

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly.

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor.

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants.

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky.

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn.

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face.

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow.

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters.

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor.

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed.

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved.

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?”

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them.

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely.

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll.

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

#elriel #pro elriel #elriel fanfiction #my writing #elain archeron #azriel and elain #azriel #elain x azriel #elain #fanfic writer #the agreement #ACOTAR fanfiction #acotar fanfic

124 notes · View notes

unforgivablego · 11 months

Text

They also see him in this scene, but they pass by, like “it’s not our problem, deal with everything yourself there, not my department”. So some people think they don’t descend to Hell, but to Earth. And Crowley arranged everything in advance, which is why they are let through.

At some point, Maggie and Nina find themselves in Aziraphale’s bookshop (Gabriel is no longer there, apparently this is the end, like the fourth or fifth ep - did Crowley go to Heaven for him? — another internet theory).

Aziraphale opens a passage between the Earth and Heaven, the inhabitants of Hell appear there, and it all looks as if the angel is now inviting all the guests for tea.

Crowley appears later, along with the archangels, apparently just returned from Heaven or Hell.

Then maybe this happening.

Demons surround the bookshop and throw this sign here.

The demons disappear somewhere, Aziraphale says his epic: "I think I may have just started a war." Crowley is joking and I thought this could have been the end of the season.

Next is a very tense, apparently, dialogue between the angels and Aziraphale . Or it happens after Muriel reported that Gabriel was not in the bookshop. Aziraphale has a record in her hands, most likely from Maggie's store. This moment can also take place before Muriel arrives. Since in the scene with her, this record is playing in gramophone. In general, a rather ambiguous moment.

I don't know when, either, but they still make it to the pub where the monthly meeting of the Wikber Street Merchants' and Shopkeepers' Association takes place. Crowley changes his clothes (he gets a turtleneck and I have a terribly spoiler theory about this, but I won't say it).

Further, the angel said about some clue in the case, leaving this pub. The contents of the box may be a clue. I also don't know where to put this moment, it doesn't seem to fit anywhere.

How it will end or on what, I can not yet guess.

#good omens #good omens 2 #crowley and aziraphale #good omens series #good omens season 2 #good omens season two #neil gaiman #michael sheen #david tennant #neil gaiman meme #good omens spoilers maybe

56 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 4 months

Text

The actor Michael Jayston, who has died aged 88, was a distinguished performer on stage and screen. The roles that made his name were as the doomed Tsar Nicholas II of Russia in Franklin Schaffner’s sumptuous account of the last days of the Romanovs in Nicholas and Alexandra (1971), and as Alec Guinness’s intelligence minder in John Le Carré’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy on television in 1979. He never made a song and dance about himself and perhaps as a consequence was not launched in Hollywood, as were many of his contemporaries.

Before these two parts, he had already played a key role in The Power Game on television and Henry Ireton, Cromwell’s son-in-law, in Ken Hughes’s fine Cromwell (1969), with Richard Harris in the title role and Guinness as King Charles I. And this followed five years with the Royal Shakespeare Company including a trip to Broadway in Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming, in which he replaced Michael Bryant as Teddy, the brother who returns to the US and leaves his wife in London to “take care of” his father and siblings.

Jayston, who was not flamboyantly good-looking but clearly and solidly attractive, with a steely, no-nonsense, demeanour and a steady, piercing gaze, could “do” the Pinter menace as well as anyone, and that cast – who also made the 1973 movie directed by Peter Hall – included Pinter’s then wife, Vivien Merchant, as well as Paul Rogers and Ian Holm.

Jayston had found a replacement family in the theatre. Born Michael James in Nottingham, he was the only child of Myfanwy (nee Llewelyn) and Vincent; his father died of pneumonia, following a serious accident on the rugby field, when Michael was one, and his mother died when he was a barely a teenager. He was then brought up by his grandmother and an uncle, and found himself involved in amateur theatre while doing national service in the army; he directed a production of The Happiest Days of Your Life.

He continued in amateur theatre while working for two years as a trainee accountant for the National Coal Board and in Nottingham fish market, before winning a scholarship, aged 23, to the Guildhall School of Music and Drama in London, where he was five years older than everyone else on his course. He played in rep in Bangor, Northern Ireland, and at the Salisbury Playhouse before joining the Bristol Old Vic for two seasons in 1963.

At the RSC from 1965, he enjoyed good roles – Oswald in Ghosts, Bertram in All’s Well That Ends Well, Laertes to David Warner’s Hamlet – and was Demetrius in Hall’s film of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1968), with Warner as Lysander in a romantic foursome with Diana Rigg and Helen Mirren.

But his RSC associate status did not translate itself into the stardom of, say, Alan Howard, Warner, Judi Dench, Ian Richardson and others at the time. He was never fazed or underrated in this company, but his career proceeded in a somewhat nebulous fashion, and Nicholas and Alexandra, for all its success and ballyhoo, did not bring him offers from the US.

Instead, he played Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1972), a so-so British musical film version with music and lyrics by John Barry and Don Black, with Michael Crawford as the White Rabbit and Peter Sellers the March Hare. In 1979 he was a colonel in Zulu Dawn, a historically explanatory prequel to the earlier smash hit Zulu.

As an actor he seemed not to be a glory-hunter. Instead, in the 1980s, he turned in stylish and well-received leading performances in Noël Coward’s Private Lives, at the Duchess, opposite Maria Aitken (1980); as Captain von Trapp in the first major London revival of The Sound of Music at the Apollo Victoria in 1981, opposite Petula Clark; and, best of all, as Mirabell, often a thankless role, in William Gaskill’s superb 1984 revival, at Chichester and the Haymarket, of The Way of the World, by William Congreve, opposite Maggie Smith as Millamant.

Nor was he averse to taking over the leading roles in plays such as Peter Shaffer’s Equus (1973) or Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa (1992), roles first occupied in London by Alec McCowen. He rejoined the National Theatre – he had been Gratiano with Laurence Olivier and Joan Plowright in The Merchant of Venice directed by Jonathan Miller in 1974 – to play a delightful Home Counties Ratty in the return of Alan Bennett’s blissful, Edwardian The Wind in the Willows in 1994.

On television, he was a favourite side-kick of David Jason in 13 episodes of David Nobbs’s A Bit of a Do (1989) – as the solicitor Neville Badger in a series of social functions and parties across West Yorkshire – and in four episodes of The Darling Buds of May (1992) as Ernest Bristow, the brewery owner. He appeared again with Jason in a 1996 episode of Only Fools and Horses.

He figured for the first time on fan sites when he appeared in the 1986 Doctor Who season The Trial of a Time Lord as Valeyard, the prosecuting counsel. In the new millennium he passed through both EastEnders and Coronation Street before bolstering the most lurid storyline of all in Emmerdale (2007-08): he was Donald de Souza, an unpleasant old cove who fell out with his family and invited his disaffected wife to push him off a cliff on the moors in his wheelchair, but died later of a heart attack.

By now living on the south coast, Jayston gravitated easily towards Chichester as a crusty old colonel – married to Wendy Craig – in Coward’s engaging early play Easy Virtue, in 1999, and, three years later, in 2002, as a hectored husband, called Hector, to Patricia Routledge’s dotty duchess in Timberlake Wertenbaker’s translation of Jean Anouilh’s Léocadia under the title Wild Orchids.

And then, in 2007, he exuded a tough spirituality as a confessor to David Suchet’s pragmatic pope-maker in The Last Confession, an old-fashioned but gripping Vatican thriller of financial and political finagling told in flashback. Roger Crane’s play transferred from Chichester to the Haymarket and toured abroad with a fine panoply of senior British actors, Jayston included.

After another collaboration with Jason, and Warner, in the television movie Albert’s Memorial (2009), a touching tale of old war-time buddies making sure one of them is buried on the German soil where first they met, and a theatre tour in Ronald Harwood’s musicians-in-retirement Quartet in 2010 with Susannah York, Gwen Taylor and Timothy West, he made occasional television appearances in Midsomer Murders, Doctors and Casualty. Last year he provided an introduction to a re-run of Tinker Tailor on BBC Four. He seemed always to be busy, available for all seasons.

As a keen cricketer (he also played darts and chess), Jayston was a member of the MCC and the Lord’s Taverners. After moving to Brighton, he became a member of Sussex county cricket club and played for Rottingdean, where he was also president.

His first two marriages – to the actor Lynn Farleigh in 1965 and the glass engraver Heather Sneddon in 1970 – ended in divorce. From his second marriage he had two sons, Tom and Ben, and a daughter, Li-an. In 1979 he married Ann Smithson, a nurse, and they had a son, Richard, and daughter, Katie.

🔔 Michael Jayston (Michael James), actor, born 29 October 1935; died 5 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #michael jayston #in memoriam

12 notes · View notes

mushbop · 3 months

Text

Lloyd came to the door one afternoon, looking for Cyrus. He had been spending a lot of time with Maggie recently and was hoping to ask for her hand in marriage with the approval of Cyrus.

Cyrus was sad at the aspect of his daughter leaving the house, but Lloyd was from a merchanting family across town and that status would surely help his daughter in the future, so he gave his blessing.

As exciting as this news was, the eventful day was not over.

That evening, Ellie began having chest pains in bed. Slowly crawling out, she could hardly get the attention of Cyrus beside her.

#1890s #ts4 decades #ts4 decades legacy #ts4 decades challenge #historical sims #sims 4 historical

13 notes · View notes

0owhatsamsays · 10 months

Text

Good Omens Gods

I warn you, this will sound a little bit crazy, not so solid and it will be long, but hear me out! PLEASE! I need someone to hear this because if I am right, everything changes and I need to discuss it. The ball scene. Every time I watched it, something seemed off. But also, it looked familiar. I rewatched it several times until it hit me. If you have watched Supernatural and if you are a fan, then you must remember the episode with all the gods in the hotel. Dean and Sam were stuck in the hotel with them. There were Kali, Ganesh, etc. The ball could possibly be something similar! Listen, listen! They are stuck in the bookshop by Aziraphale's magic, just like Dean and Sam were stuck in the hotel. And all shopkeepers are actually different gods. Also, you all saw how suspicious was Ms. Cheng, right? When this hit me, I started digging. So! Firstly, I checked some famous gods and then the list of shops that Aziraphale is holding.

I think Mr. Mutt from the magic shop is Ganesh. The god with the elephant head. I went through the goddess Isis too, but what made me choose Ganesh is that he is often represented with lots of jewelry, and most importantly, his spouse. If he was Isis, his spouse had to be Osiris and his spouse doesn't give away any clues about being Osiris, but they have a serpent tattoo on their chest. And Ganesh is represented with the serpent Vasuki around him, so his spouse probably is Vasuki. His magic shop in Azi's list is "Goldstone's". I searched "Goldstone god" and the first thing that came up was many Ganesh figurines made of goldstone. And the lucky snake from the list is probably Vasuki.

We continue with Mr. Arnold. We don't know much about him besides he is a musician and a fan of Dr. Who. I just wrote "god of music" and the first that came up was Apollo. Now, Apollo was a musician and something like a doctor. He helped with herbs. See, there is a "herbalist" in the list. Also, Dr. Who - Doctor - got it? :D Moving on... Mrs. Sandwich. The only thing we know about her is that she is ... a seamstress. And the seamstresses worshipped Aphrodite, so maybe she's Aphrodite. EDIT: The other possibility is to be Freya from Norse mythology and we know Neil Gaiman has a book about it. She is almost the same. Also, it would explain the feathers on her head. Freya had a cloak made of falcon feathers. Next - Mr. Brown. He is most suitable to be Mercury: The name "Mercury" is possibly related to the Latin words merx ("merchandise"; cf. merchant, commerce, etc.), mercari (to trade), and merces (wages). Mercury was the god of financial gain, commerce, eloquence, messages, and communication. The most suspicious of all was Ms. Cheng. And we know nothing about her. Only that she is Chinese and has a husband. There is one goddess that makes some sense to be her. It's Chang'e. The names are close, and Chang'e doesn't care much about her husband. Long story short, he acquired two elixirs for immortality - one for him and one for her - but she drank both of them, leaving him with nothing. Why is this relevant? We see Ms. Cheng being rude to her husband in the X-ray deleted scenes. She even hit him with a fan.

Now, Maggie and Nina. I think Nina might be Kali. And I say it only because of her looks and because it is said that Kali was the goddess of death, time, and doomsday. And where does Nina work? Right! Give me coffee or give me death. What days are coming? Doomsday? I am gonna talk about time really soon in another post, so I won't go there now. As for Maggie, she was the toughest to guess, but probably Athena, because Nina described her as the bravest person and Athena is the goddess of bravery and the goddess of war. Maggie is the one who invited the demons in and fought with them. Another thing about her is that she said she had brothers. Athena has more than 20 siblings. Also, one symbol of Athena is the olive tree.

I think there is no need to explain what I am showing you here, right? Oh, and one more thing about Nina, which I am not sure about because I can't see it well - at the bottom of Azi's list, about Nina's coffee shop he wrote just "No coffee". At least this is how I read it. Only death then? Kali - death?

Only Justine from Marguerite's and the Italian on the list - I have no idea. Maybe I will find something with time, or if you have read the whole thing and think you can help me figure it out - great! I will be waiting. But if all this turns out to be true, it will explain why everything seems a little bit staged, off, strange, or whatever you want to call it.

#good omens #hyperfixation #tv shows #good omens 2 #neil gaiman #good omens theory #good omens analysis #go2 #gods #mythology #deities #need to discuss #supernatural

31 notes · View notes

ask-la-squadra · 4 months

Note

What personality traits make the La Squadra members hate someone instantly???? :3

Risotto Nero - I hate cocky people, especially when it is misplaced, it can be so frustrating dealing with someone with such lack of self awareness it drives me to act against my better judgement.

Pros - Whining. It won't do anything, just get on with it and cry later.

Pesci - Rudeness for no reason, just a plain lack of compassion for people really. Being an asshole won't make you any happier.

Maggi - People who can't take a joke, and not in the offensive way, in the way that they literally get so mad at jokes.

LuLu - Pushy people, if I say no I mean it, keep insisting and it just makes me want to never speak to you again.

Melone - Closed minded-ness, I respect boundaries, I mean in the way that people are not open to hearing about alternative perspectives or try new things.

Ghiaccio - Stupidity. You know Paris, France? In English, it's pronounced "Paris" but everyone else pronounces it without the "s" sound, like the French do. But with Venezia, everyone pronouces it the English way: "Venice". Like The Merchant of Venice or Death in Venice. WHY, THOUGH!? WHY ISN'T THE TITLE DEATH IN VENEZIA!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? IT TAKES PLACE IN ITALY, SO USE THE ITALIAN WORD, DAMMIT! THAT SHIT PISSES ME OFF! BUNCH OF DUMBASSES!

Sorbet - People who are okay with dragging you down. I hate when people pick at your every move and make snarky comments.

Gelato - Entitled people. Why should you be entitled to something above everyone else, we're all busting our asses and going through shit. Those type of people who will scream at restaurant workers too. I hate it when people think they're better than someone else.

#jjba part 5 #jjba #jjba au #la squadra #la squadra headcanons

11 notes · View notes

googly-eyed-plank · 17 days

Text

Anyone fancy chatting about BBC Extras?

#bbc extras #extras bbc #ricky gervais #stephen merchant #smerch #andy millman #darren lamb #barry off eastenders #maggie jacobs #googly-eyed blabbing

1 note · View note

byneddiedingo · 1 year

Photo

Rosemary Leach, Daniel Day-Lewis, Simon Callow, Helena Bonham Carter, Rupert Graves in A Room With a View (James Ivory, 1985) Cast: Helena Bonham Carter, Maggie Smith, Julian Sands, Denholm Elliott, Simon Callow, Judi Dench, Daniel Day-Lewis, Rosemary Leach, Rupert Graves. Screenplay: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, based on a novel by E.M. Forster. Cinematography: Tony Pierce-Roberts. Production design: Brian Ackland Snow, Gianni Quaranta. Film editing: Humphrey Dixon. Music: Richard Robbins.

James Ivory and producer Ismail Merchant had a collaboration that began with the formation of Merchant Ivory Productions in 1961 and lasted until Merchant's death in 2005. It usually included the screenwriter Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. The trio developed a reputation for literary adaptations that were beautifully filmed with opulent sets and costumes and a gallery of celebrated stars -- most of them British. But the trouble with developing a distinctive style is that you can become a cliché: "Merchant Ivory" eventually became a label for a film that was tastefully middlebrow -- well-done and entertaining but just a tad safe. It's a pity, because their best films -- Howards End (1992), The Remains of the Day (1993), and this one -- set a high standard, despite their "safeness." Few films have a better sense of place and time than A Room With a View in its depiction of Florence at the start of the 20th century. Granted, it leans a bit too heavily on the cliché about stuffy Brits losing their cool in the warmer climate of Tuscany, but that's the fault of E.M. Forster's novel -- not one of his major works -- and not of Jhabvala's Oscar-winning screenplay. Oscars also went to the art direction team and to costumers Jenny Beavan and John Bright, and it was nominated for best picture, for the supporting performances of Denholm Elliott and Maggie Smith, for Ivory's direction, and for Tony Pierce-Roberts's cinematography. The cast includes Helena Bonham Carter (in her "corset-roles" period) and Julian Sands, along with a then little-known Daniel Day-Lewis. Proof that Day-Lewis is one of the greatest actors of all time is no longer needed, but it's worth contemplating that he created the character of the prissy Cecil Vyse in this film within a year of appearing as the gay street punk Johnny in My Beautiful Laundrette (Stephen Frears), and that he would follow with the sexy Tomas in The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Philip Kaufman, 1988), the paralyzed Christy Brown in My Left Foot (Jim Sheridan, 1989), and the dashing Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans (Michael Mann, 1992). Day-Lewis's Cecil Vyse verges on a caricature of the sexually repressed Brit, but he has an affecting moment near the end when, after Lucy (Bonham Carter) breaks off their engagement, he emerges as a vulnerable, three-dimensional character. Richard Robbins's fine score is memorably supplemented by Kiri Te Kanawa's recordings of two Puccini arias: "O mio babbino caro" from Gianni Schicchi and "Chi il bel sogno di Doretta" from La Rondine.

#A Room With a View #James Ivory #Rosemary Leach #Daniel Day-Lewis #Helena Bonham Carter #Simon Callow #Rupert Graves

34 notes · View notes

hbcsource · 1 year

Photo

HELENA BONHAM CARTER IN CONVERSATION WITH SIMON CALLOW | THE LONDON LIBRARY MAGAZINE | APRIL 2023 Helena Bonham Carter was joined by the writer and fellow actor Simon Callow at home this spring to discuss her new role: Library President. The two are longtime members and met filming the 1985 EM Forster adaptation A Room With a View. Bonham Carter was 19. It was the first of many Merchant Ivory productions for her, including Maurice and Howards End, before Hollywood called, with a role as the suicidal love interest in David Fincher's Fight Club. Work with her former husband, Tim Burton, came next, as well as a contribution to the Harry Potter franchise and more. Callow's acting career includes stage roles in Shakespeare, Beckett, pantomime and contemporary theatre and beloved British films such as Four Weddings and a Funeral. He is a biographer of Oscar Wilde and Orson Welles and a renowned Dickens expert. This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity. HELENA BONHAM CARTER: Simon, it's very nice to see you here. Welcome to my Presidential home! I'm not having a clever day - do you find that, or are you always clever? SIMON CALLOW: Always. But I think I might be daunted by being the President of The London Library. Such a wonderful title, such a wonderful entity. HELENA: I love the title. The older I get, the more I like having conversations with dead people - for instance my dad, who made me a member when I was 21. For the Library to then ask me to be President... SIMON: Fantastic. HELENA : I used the Library a lot then, which was also when I first met you. I was sort of roaming and feeling lost, having a great time filming but feeling out of my depth everywhere. My peer group had gone to uni, and I was suddenly just on my own path and really unequipped to deal with it. I had a massive chip on my shoulder. So The London Library was my college. I felt legitimate, and I thought I could wander in and dress up like Virginia Woolf. SIMON: It's like going right back to the source, isn't it? There it all is, and there they were. HELENA: There they were! It's not only a conversation with my dead dad, but a conversation with EM Forster. If it was not for him, we wouldn't be here. SIMON: A Room With A View is my favourite film of all the films I've been in, and I'm still astonished by its freshness. HELENA: It still works. SIMON: It really does. It was my second film and I was incredibly relieved - I'd been in Amadeus and detested every second. When I got the script [for A Room With A View] Ismail [Merchant, the producer] said to me: "We want you to play the leading part!" So I thought, "This is great, he sees me as George. I'll go on a diet immediately." Then my agent discovered I was in fact playing the Reverend Beebe. And I thought, "No, outright no." I was terribly hurt. HELENA: And totally miscast. SIMON: Beebe's the fat old parson; I can't possibly play him. Finally I gave in to discover that suddenly I was with the aristocracy of British film and theatre: Maggie [Smith], Judi [Dench] and Fabia Drake, no less. And you. Who was completely new. HELENA: I was a foetus. SIMON: What I remember about you then was the incredible speed with which you spoke. HELENA: Oh, seriously? That's like my daughter. SIMON: You would change tack in the middle of a sentence and contradict yourself. HELENA: I don't think that's changed. I'm interested that I spoke at all. I remember myself as a mute, a total mouse, and so in awe of everyone. I was aware that you were a writer and talking about Mozart a lot, so I thought, "He's the Renaissance man that I have to become." Also, without being too indiscreet, you were one of the kinder adults. SIMON: Fabia was an absolute holy terror. What was great was to be working on a script drawn from such a wonderful novel. Ruth [Prawer Jhabvala, who adapted the original novel for the film] incomparably excelled at weaving the words from the novel into a real script, so that these were really people talking to each other. My favourite scene in any movie I've acted in is our scene at the piano. HELENA: It was the most important scene. You, as Mr Beebe, caught Lucy [Honeychurch, my character] playing in private. He's so tender and I love that. "If only you knew how to live as you play." SIMON: Beebe, certainly as written by Ruth - less so by Forster actually - is essentially benevolent. I remember the first read through, in London somewhere? HELENA: I was terrified. Maybe it was the first time I read with Maggie and Judi. SIMON: Maggie terrified me by saying, "Why are you calling him 'Beebe'? It has to be 'Bee-be'. Beebe sounds as if we're at the Beeb!" Were you always a great reader of novels? HELENA: Quite a good reader, though I was slow. I was taught at English A Level by Penelope Fitzgerald. SIMON: I knew and loved her. Was she a good teacher? HELENA: Extraordinary. Did you ever read Offshore? I love that. But I thought it would be good to look as if I read, because then every heroine in every book or film was a reader or writer. I wanted to be Judy Davis in My Brilliant Career. It was probably quite healthy, instead of fixating on a physique, which is what most people do these days because of Instagram. I wasn't very sexual for a long time. SIMON: You were wearing lots of clothes. HELENA: So many clothes. SIMON: One couldn't even begin to guess what the woman beneath would be. HELENA: No, there wasn't a body. SIMON: It was extraordinary, you were a sort of Oxfam shop on two legs. HELENA: I don't know where that came from. I think I had a real complex. Maybe because I was in such a male world. I went to Westminster [School], which was all boys, so before I even walked into period movies, I was dressed as a Victorian. It was always about pretending to be in the past. I over romanticised or felt I belonged in the past, actually. SIMON: The biggest relationships in my young life were with my grandmothers. I asked one to make me an 18th-century costume for a Christmas present. HELENA: Oh, I love that. So you dressed up as Mozart? SIMON: In effect. I loved the fabrics, the shimmer of it all. HELENA: On Maurice [1987] I did hair and makeup for all the men, which was rather a good way of dating people. It was Tinder then. In terms of influence, how important were your parents? SIMON: The only one of my family that read novels was my grandmother, though she never talked about them. A book can be just for you. You have a relationship with the characters and have somehow subsumed them into your psyche. HELENA: I always feel like you want to share the wonder. SIMON: Your family are very literary, aren't they? HELENA: Well, my grandmother Violet definitely was, on my dad's side. She was [Prime Minister H H] Asquith's daughter [and president of the Liberal Party from 1945-47]. My maternal grandmother was a special character, but found it difficult to read. I think she would have been diagnosed as dyslexic now, but she wrote beautifully. My mum, her whole life has never been without several books. My dad developed cortical blindness, which meant he couldn't see faces, but could read, so he read his way through the last 24 years of his life. We had half of The London Library in our home because they'd send him books. SIMON: Oh, fantastic. HELENA: Violet was formidable and wrote a lot of letters. I came back from filming with Woody Allen in a monastery in Taormina, and Dad was editing them. There was a postcard to her husband in 1940 saying: "Have just finished Morgan's latest Howards End." She knew Edward Morgan Forster. When I came to film Howards End with you, I read Violet's [unfinished] autobiography and thought, "Oh god, she was basically like the Helen Schlegel character, a sort of radical bohemian, a bluestocking..." And would have been the same age. So maybe she was a bit of a model for Helen. SIMON: Forster wasn't a recluse until later at King's College Cambridge, I think. HELENA: Did you ever get a sense of what he was like? SIMON: Everything in his life was the opposite of what he espoused: the passion, the connecting. This gives his work its force, because it didn't come easily to him. He had to struggle to make it happen. HELENA: He did have relationships though, didn't he? SIMON: Famously with a married policeman, Bob Buckingham. But also earlier, in Alexandria, and later, with a Bulgarian art collector, 45 years his junior. All very discreet. As a young gay man, I was impatient with him. Instead of thinking how extraordinary it was for its time, I just thought, "Come on, we've gone beyond all of this". It felt a bit spinsterly. Now I think it's passionate and unbelievably brave and exquisitely written. Then, I was more taken by DH Lawrence, which was all oceanic... My entire ambition was to be a writer. Do you write? HELENA: I've been asked to, and I've written the odd article. My attention span is troubling, but I do enjoy it when I apply myself. SIMON: I have to work very hard at it, and do terrifically long days. I can be at the laptop by seven. HELENA: In the morning? Jeez. OK, so you've got Morning Brain. SIMON: I've got a night brain, too. But no afternoon brain. HELENA: The afternoon is not really good for much. SIMON: Yes. I have difficulty in the theatre, rehearsing in the afternoon. HELENA: I have to have a snooze, no matter what. The snooze has been a pillar of my living. Do you ever write in books when you're reading them, or is that sacrilegious? SIMON: I do when I'm reviewing, but that's with proofs, so I can scrawl all over them. HELENA: I've got a thing about having a relationship with a book, so I will, unfortunately, write sentences in them. Also in the hope that somehow it's going to stick in the brain. SIMON: Let's talk about the Library - its location, for instance. St James's Square is enchanting. HELENA: Yes, and I do think that places work magic on us and influence what we think. It is very creative. Also, just silence. To go and sit with others with no danger of conversation, but you've got the company of other people concentrating. If you're going to seriously write, it could be very lonely. You have to go to battle with yourself, but it's alleviated at the Library because you're with other people who are going into battle with themselves. SIMON: Libraries generally have a very curious combination of this quietness and focus, coupled with a very sexy feeling. It's the silence. HELENA: I was going to raise that, but you start. SIMON: I wonder why that is exactly. It's just because everybody's in their own space and in their own world somehow, and you know that as you drift into that sort of semi hypnotic state, sex is going to be in there somewhere. HELENA: Yeah, it's always there. SIMON: So it's the subconscious. It's sort of milling around the Library. I think I said this before, it's like a book bordello. You just go up and take whatever you want to. HELENA: Have your pleasure. I like that. SIMON: The Library's postal service is also miraculous. And everyone's so sympathetic. Years ago, my dog acquired a passion for 17th-century literature; it turns out it was the fish glue used to bind the spines. One day I came home and there was a priceless volume in pieces all over the place. I offered to replace it somehow but the Librarian said: "I have dogs; I understand." HELENA: How do you use the Library? SIMON: Not for writing or reading. Just to borrow books. The collection of arcana is vast. Writing about Orson Welles, I needed to know what it was like to be a tourist in Morocco in 1930. The Library had six - six! - guides from the period. I don't know anywhere else I could have found that. I love clambering up the metal stairs and finding things that nobody's taken out for 100 years. HELENA: You think George Eliot is going to actually appear. SIMON: It still is enchanting to me to do that. HELENA: As a writer, do you have a ritual? SIMON: Procrastinate as long as possible. I was so relieved to discover that Ibsen could spend four hours rearranging his desk before starting to write. Unlike Dickens. HELENA: He just sat down? SIMON: He was always writing at least two things at once, sometimes more - he wrote the last of The Pickwick Papers and the first chapters of Nicholas Nickleby simultaneously. He worked it all out, I'm sure, on his long walks. HELENA: Have you seen his original manuscripts? SIMON: Almost illegible; you feel the heat of his creative energy. He talks about the characters dancing down the pen. HELENA: I love that - when somebody takes possession. SIMON: As with acting: when it's good, it's not you playing the character, it's the character playing you.

#helena bonham carter #simon callow #the london library #interviews #2023 #interviews: 2023 #the london library magazine 2023

36 notes · View notes