Peter S. Beagle - Come Lady Death

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Come Lady Death

by Peter S. Beagle

This all happened in England a long time ago, when that George who spoke English with a heavy

German accent and hated his sons was King. At that time there lived in London a lady who had

nothing to do but give parties. Her name was Flora, Lady Neville, and she was a widow and very

old. She lived in a great house not far from Buckingham Palace, and she had so many servants

that she could not possibly remember all their names; indeed, there were some she had never

even seen. She had more food than she could eat, more gowns than she could ever wear; she had

wine in her cellars that no one would drink in her lifetime, and her private vaults were filled with

great works of art that she did not know she owned. She spent the last years of her life giving

parties and balls to which the greatest lords of England—and sometimes the King himself—

came, and she was known as the wisest and wittiest woman in all London.

But in time her own parties began to bore her, and though she invited the most famous people in

the land and hired the greatest jugglers and acrobats and dancers and magicians to entertain them,

still she found her parties duller and duller. Listening to court gossip, which she had always

loved, made her yawn. The most marvelous music, the most exciting feats of magic put her to

sleep. Watching a beautiful young couple dance by her made her feel sad, and she hated to feel

sad.

And so, one summer afternoon she called her closest friends around her and said to them, "More

and more I find that my parties entertain everyone but me. The secret of my long life is that

nothing has ever been dull for me. For all my life, I have been interested in everything I saw and

been anxious to see more. But I cannot stand to be bored, and I will not go to parties at which I

expect to be bored, especially if they are my own. Therefore, to my next ball I shall invite the one

guest I am sure no one, not even myself, could possibly find boring. My friends, the guest of

honor at my next party shall be Death himself!"

A young poet thought that this was a wonderful idea, but the rest of her friends were terrified and

drew back from her. They did not want to die, they pleaded with her. Death would come for them

when he was ready; why should she invite him before the appointed hour, which would arrive

soon enough? But Lady Neville said, "Precisely. If Death has planned to take any of us on the

night of my party, he will come whether he is invited or not. But if none of us are to die, then I

think it would be charming to have Death among us—perhaps even to perform some little trick if

he is in a good humor. And think of being able to say that we had been to a party with Death! All

of London will envy us, all of England!"

The idea began to please her friends, but a young lord, very new to London, suggested timidly,

"Death is so busy. Suppose he has work to do and cannot accept your invitation?"

"No one has ever refused an invitation of mine," said Lady Neville, "not even the King." And the

young lord was not invited to her party.

She sat down then and there and wrote out the invitation. There was some dispute among her

friends as to how they should address Death. "His Lordship Death" seemed to place him only on

the level of a viscount or a baron. "His Grace Death" met with more acceptance, but Lady Neville

said it sounded hypocritical. And to refer to Death as "His Majesty" was to make him the equal of

the King of England, which even Lady Neville would not dare to do. It was finally decided that

all should speak of him as "His Eminence Death," which pleased nearly everyone.

Captain Compson, known both as England's most dashing cavalry officer and most elegant rake,

remarked next, "That's all very well, but how is the invitation to reach Death? Does anyone here

know where he lives?"

"Death undoubtedly lives in London," said Lady Neville, "like everyone else of any importance,

though he probably goes to Deauville for the summer. Actually, Death must live fairly near my

own house. This is much the best section of London, and you could hardly expect a person of

Death's importance to live anywhere else. When I stop to think of it, it's really rather strange that

we haven't met before now, on the street."

Most of her friends agreed with her, but the poet, whose name was David Lorimond, cried out,

"No, my lady, you are wrong! Death lives among the poor. Death lives in the foulest, darkest

alleys of this city, in some vile, rat-ridden hovel that smells of—" He stopped here partly because

Lady Neville had indicated her displeasure, and partly because he had never been inside such a

hut or thought of wondering what it smelled like. "Death lives among the poor," he went on, "and

comes to visit them every day, for he is their only friend."

Lady Neville answered him as coldly as she had spoken to the young lord. "He may be forced to

deal with them, David, but I hardly think that he seeks them out as companions. I am certain that

it is as difficult for him to think of the poor as individuals as it is for me. Death is, after all, a

nobleman."

There was no real argument among the lords and ladies that Death lived in a neighborhood at

least as good as their own, but none of them seemed to know the name of Death's street, and no

one had ever seen Death's house.

"If there were a war," Captain Compson said, "Death would be easy to find. I have seen him, you

know, even spoken to him, but he has never answered me."

"Quite proper," said Lady Neville. "Death must always speak first. You are not a very correct

person, Captain." But she smiled at him, as all women did.

Then an idea came to her. "My hairdresser has a sick child, I understand," she said. "He was

telling me about it yesterday, sounding most dull and hopeless. I will send for him and give him

the invitation, and he in his turn can give it to Death when he comes to take the brat. A bit

unconventional, I admit, but I see no other way."

"If he refuses?" asked a lord who had just been married.

"Why should he?" asked Lady Neville.

Again it was the poet who exclaimed amidst the general approval that this was a cruel and wicked

thing to do. But he fell silent when Lady Neville innocently asked him, "Why, David?"

So the hairdresser was sent for, and when he stood before them, smiling nervously and twisting

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Peter S. Beagle - Come Lady Death

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