nineveh_uk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nineveh_uk) wrote2010-07-07 02:24 pm
nineveh_uk) wrote2010-07-07 02:24 pm
Entry tags:
Wimsey ficlet
This was spawned (I hesitate to say "inspired") by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shinyopals' summing up of the first four chapters of Strong Poison, which was a lot more exciting than the first four chapters of Strong Poison (I know why Sayers does it, I don't think it completely works), which included the immortal sentences: "After their interview, Peter leaves and skips through the road like a five year old because Harriet DIDN’T SAY NO and SAID HI TO HIM. And then he goes and doodles “Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey” and “Harriet Wimsey” all over his notebook in heart shapes." Followed by a note in comments that Bunter does, of course, know.
If the following might suggest a little too great a resemblance between Peter Death Bredon Wimsey and Bella Swann, well, just call it a jeu d'esprit (that's what I always say).
Art for art's sake
Lord Peter had often remarked disparagingly on the habits of amateur murderers who failed to pay sufficient attention to the detail of their crime, and thus found themselves discovered. It was a pity, thought Bunter, pounding the ashes with the poker as he tidied the library at the end of the night, that Lord Peter did not apply the same attention to his personal affairs. The mood produced by a surprisingly successful lunch with Miss Vane, followed by a particularly convivial evening at his club marking the fortieth birthday and upcoming nuptials of Mr Arbuthnot, had not been conducive of caution, with the result that half-charred scraps of paper covered with inky scribbles reading Harriet Wimsey, Lady Peter Wimsey, Harriet, Lady Peter Wimsey, Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey and, repeatedly over a whole sheet, embellished with little curlicues and what were presumably meant to be turtle doves, I love Harriet Vane, were left for the service flats’ staff to discover in the morning and, knowing Evelyn as Bunter feared that he did, giggle over to the detriment of their duties. Now that the trial was over, and the lady's innocence conclusively proved, this might have been merely embarrassing had the writing not also been accompanied by his lordship's attempts at a portrait of the object of his affections. His lordship had many talents, but, Bunter reflected, the artistic depiction of the human form was not among them. Nor did the little bubbles of speech above the figures' heads add to their dignity. As for this one, screwed in a ball on top of the others and barely singed, once the paper had been sufficiently smoothed and the traces of India-rubber dusted away to reveal the fine detail with which the artist had evidently struggled, no wonder his lordship had thrown the lot so hastily on the fire and hurried away to the bedroom if that was what was on his mind. One couldn’t fault the artist’s enthusiasm for his subject, even if the execution left something to be desired. A less trustworthy servant might have considered the opportunity offered for minor blackmail. Bunter, ever upright in his lordship’s service, merely rescued the Times Literary Supplement from beneath a brandy glass, and continued his sweep of the room. Love, he mused over his bedtime cocoa, did funny things to a man. The young lady herself seemed a little less moved by the romance inherent in the situation, but under the circumstances allowances might be made. Bunter himself, only an onlooker, had found the situation less than restful. Only unusual anxiety concerning the potential effects on his lordship of an unsuccessful outcome could have caused him to be so careless as to forget to burn that last revealing sheet of paper, discovered in a pocket by its crackle as he hung up his black coat to air. The fireplace in his bedroom had been taken out when the central heating was put in, and it was hardly an urgent enough job to necessitate a return to the kitchen at this time of night. It had been a long day, and the cocoa was soporific. Still, one mustn’t leave such things lying around. If one had forgotten this evening one might easily do so again in the hurry of the morning. A locked drawer was the thing, a locked box in a locked drawer. There would be plenty of time to deal with it properly another day.
shinyopals' summing up of the first four chapters of Strong Poison, which was a lot more exciting than the first four chapters of Strong Poison (I know why Sayers does it, I don't think it completely works), which included the immortal sentences: "After their interview, Peter leaves and skips through the road like a five year old because Harriet DIDN’T SAY NO and SAID HI TO HIM. And then he goes and doodles “Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey” and “Harriet Wimsey” all over his notebook in heart shapes." Followed by a note in comments that Bunter does, of course, know.If the following might suggest a little too great a resemblance between Peter Death Bredon Wimsey and Bella Swann, well, just call it a jeu d'esprit (that's what I always say).
Art for art's sake
Lord Peter had often remarked disparagingly on the habits of amateur murderers who failed to pay sufficient attention to the detail of their crime, and thus found themselves discovered. It was a pity, thought Bunter, pounding the ashes with the poker as he tidied the library at the end of the night, that Lord Peter did not apply the same attention to his personal affairs. The mood produced by a surprisingly successful lunch with Miss Vane, followed by a particularly convivial evening at his club marking the fortieth birthday and upcoming nuptials of Mr Arbuthnot, had not been conducive of caution, with the result that half-charred scraps of paper covered with inky scribbles reading Harriet Wimsey, Lady Peter Wimsey, Harriet, Lady Peter Wimsey, Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey and, repeatedly over a whole sheet, embellished with little curlicues and what were presumably meant to be turtle doves, I love Harriet Vane, were left for the service flats’ staff to discover in the morning and, knowing Evelyn as Bunter feared that he did, giggle over to the detriment of their duties. Now that the trial was over, and the lady's innocence conclusively proved, this might have been merely embarrassing had the writing not also been accompanied by his lordship's attempts at a portrait of the object of his affections. His lordship had many talents, but, Bunter reflected, the artistic depiction of the human form was not among them. Nor did the little bubbles of speech above the figures' heads add to their dignity. As for this one, screwed in a ball on top of the others and barely singed, once the paper had been sufficiently smoothed and the traces of India-rubber dusted away to reveal the fine detail with which the artist had evidently struggled, no wonder his lordship had thrown the lot so hastily on the fire and hurried away to the bedroom if that was what was on his mind. One couldn’t fault the artist’s enthusiasm for his subject, even if the execution left something to be desired. A less trustworthy servant might have considered the opportunity offered for minor blackmail. Bunter, ever upright in his lordship’s service, merely rescued the Times Literary Supplement from beneath a brandy glass, and continued his sweep of the room. Love, he mused over his bedtime cocoa, did funny things to a man. The young lady herself seemed a little less moved by the romance inherent in the situation, but under the circumstances allowances might be made. Bunter himself, only an onlooker, had found the situation less than restful. Only unusual anxiety concerning the potential effects on his lordship of an unsuccessful outcome could have caused him to be so careless as to forget to burn that last revealing sheet of paper, discovered in a pocket by its crackle as he hung up his black coat to air. The fireplace in his bedroom had been taken out when the central heating was put in, and it was hardly an urgent enough job to necessitate a return to the kitchen at this time of night. It had been a long day, and the cocoa was soporific. Still, one mustn’t leave such things lying around. If one had forgotten this evening one might easily do so again in the hurry of the morning. A locked drawer was the thing, a locked box in a locked drawer. There would be plenty of time to deal with it properly another day.
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One could put all that giddy exuberance down to an excess of relief and overindulgence in toasts to Freddy's happiness, I suppose.
Why can't we all have a Bunter, is what I want to know?
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The absence of a Bunter for all is one of life's inexplicable sorrows.
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One hesitates to imagine with what fine details he had been struggling, as his imagination (no doubt) took flight. Bless Bunter for his discretion, loyalty, and attention to his master's personal affairs, all of which you have captured quite eloquently here. Lovely.
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Yes. Undoubtedly. Tweed suits. That was it. *Ahem.
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That description of Peter (hello clouds, hello sky) after meeting Harriet finally made me feel some sympathy for him. I've always just read it as insufferably arrogant (I did come to Strong Poison straight after Gaudy Night) and hoped he would fall under a bus.
I am refraining from commenting on ever upright in his lordship's service...
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I am refraining from commenting
In
I, too, read SP after GN. I really didn't notice how self-centred he's being for ages either because I read WB in-between, or because I started SP on a flight to Italy, on which I was so paralysed with fear that I remembered absolutely nothing of it, and thus really came to it via the TV version, which is a bit gentler to Peter.
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I did think, well, there's no way that got there by accident, someone should mention it and azdak is on a boat...
GN was the first one I read, followed immediately by SP so I went straight from Harriet-centred and Peter saying "I was an arrogant fool, sorry about that" to Peter, yep, being an arrogant fool. I would probably like him more if I'd started with WB.
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There really are no words for the awesomeness of Bunter. And damn it, Lord Peter makes being Bella Swan look.... well, not cool, but definitely endearing. Like this:
*fondly* Silly ass.
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(Anonymous) 2010-07-07 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)I only discovered your site last Sunday, by happy accident (I am ashamed to say I had no idea fanfic existed till then - still working out the terminology)and have spent all my lunchtimes reading my way through your beautifully constructed little stories. How wonderful to find other people who love Peter and Harriet as much as I, and to discover your wonderful missing scenes - "That a Lover have his Desire" really made my heart turn over, you really do channel the spirit of DLS and add to my enjoyment of the books (the less said about Thrones, Dominations and Presumption of Death the better), and so after three days of lurking and reading, I feel moved to post this and thank you - and look forward to more!
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Let us not speak of TD, and Presumption of Death...
fic recs tag
(Anonymous) 2010-07-17 01:32 pm (UTC)(link)I am SO enjoying all of this I think I'll have to join up to LJ (as I said in a previous post, I'm new to this online world) as I want to have my own Wimsey-related icon too, and keep up with new postings.
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Harriet: Oh, Peter! Of course I will.
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(Anonymous) 2010-07-08 11:48 am (UTC)(link)no subject
(Though in fact Wimsey pronounces his Death as death, not Deeth/De-ath.)
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Oh, Bunter. How I would love a Bunter of my own. What would Lord P do without him?
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What would Lord P do without him?
Canonically, sit alone and shivering in a dark room.
(love the icon)
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