The essential peter s be.., p.4
The Essential Peter S. Beagle, Volume 1, page 4
The Professor’s sister Edith died younger than she should have. He grieved for her, and took much comfort in the fact that Nathalie never failed to visit him when she came to America. The last few times, she had brought a husband and two children with her—the youngest hugging a ragged but indomitable tiger named Charles under his arm. They most often swept him off for the evening; and it was on one such occasion, just after they had brought him home and said their good-byes, and their rented car had rounded the corner, that the mugging occurred.
Professor Gottesman was never quite sure himself about what actually took place. He remembered a light scuffle of footfalls, remembered a savage blow on the side of his head, then another impact as his cheek and forehead hit the ground. There were hands clawing through his pockets, low voices so distorted by obscene viciousness that he lost English completely, became for the first time in fifty years a terrified immigrant, once more unable to cry out for help in this new and dreadful country. A faceless figure billowed over him, grabbing his collar, pulling him close, mouthing words he could not understand. It was brandishing something menacingly in its free hand.
Then it vanished abruptly, as though blasted away by the sidewalk-shaking bellow of rage that was Professor Gottesman’s last clear memory until he woke in a strange bed, with Sally Lowry, Nathalie, and several policemen bending over him. The next day’s newspapers ran the marvelous story of a retired philosophy professor, properly frail and elderly, not only fighting off a pair of brutal muggers but beating them so badly that they had to be hospitalized themselves before they could be arraigned. Sally impishly kept the incident on the front pages for some days by confiding to reporters that Professor Gottesman was a practitioner of a long-forgotten martial arts discipline, practiced only in ancient Sumer and Babylonia. “Plain childishness,” she said apologetically, after the fuss had died down. “Pure self-indulgence. I’m sorry, Gus.”
“Do not be,” the Professor replied. “If we were to tell them the truth, I would immediately be placed in an institution.” He looked sideways at his friend, who smiled and said, “What, about the rhinoceros rescuing you? I’ll never tell, I swear. They could pull out my fingernails.”
Professor Gottesman said, “Sally, those boys had been trampled, practically stamped flat. One of them had been gored, I saw him. Do you really think I could have done all that?”
“Remember, I’ve seen you in your wrath,” Sally answered lightly and untruthfully. What she had in fact seen was one of the ace-of-clubs footprints she remembered in crusted mud on the Professor’s front steps long ago. She said, “Gus. How old am I?”
The Professor’s response was off by a number of years, as it always was. Sally said, “You’ve frozen me at a certain age, because you don’t want me getting any older. Fine, I happen to be the same way about that rhinoceros of yours. There are one or two things I just don’t want to know about that damned rhinoceros, Gus. If that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, Sally,” Professor Gottesman answered. “That is all right.”
The rhinoceros itself had very little to say about the whole incident. “I chanced to be awake, watching a lecture about Bulgarian icons on The Learning Channel. I heard the noise outside.” Beyond that, it sidestepped all questions, pointedly concerning itself only with the Professor’s recuperation from his injuries and shock. In fact, he recovered much faster than might reasonably have been expected from a gentleman of his years. The doctor commented on it.
The occurrence made Professor Gottesman even more of an icon himself on campus; as a direct consequence, he spent even less time there than before, except when the rhinoceros requested a particular book. Nathalie, writing from Zurich, never stopped urging him to take in a housemate, for company and safety, but she would have been utterly dumbfounded if he had accepted her suggestion. “Something looks out for him,” she said to her husband. “I always knew that, I couldn’t tell you why. Uncle Gustave is somebody’s dear stuffed Charles.”
Sally Lowry did grow old, despite Professor Gottesman’s best efforts. The university gave her a retirement ceremony, too, but she never showed up for it. “Too damned depressing,” she told Professor Gottesman, as he helped her into her coat for their regular Wednesday walk. “It’s all right for you, Gus, you’ll be around forever. Me, I drink, I still smoke, I still eat all kinds of stuff they tell me not to eat—I don’t even floss, for God’s sake. My circulation works like the post office, and even my cholesterol has arthritis. Only reason I’ve lasted this long is I had this stupid job teaching beautiful, useless stuff to idiots. Now, that’s it. Now, I’m a goner.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Sally,” Professor Gottesman assured her vigorously. “You have always told me you are too mean and spiteful to die. I am holding you to this.”
“Pickled in vinegar only lasts just so long,” Sally said. “One cheery note, anyway—it’ll be the heart that goes. Always is, in my family. That’s good, I couldn’t hack cancer. I’d be a shameless, screaming disgrace, absolutely no dignity at all. I’m really grateful it’ll be the heart.”
The Professor was very quiet while they walked all the way down to the little local park, and back again. They had reached the apartment complex where she lived, when he suddenly gripped her by the arms, looked straight into her face, and said loudly, “That is the best heart I ever knew, yours. I will not let anything happen to that heart.”
“Go home, Gus,” Sally told him harshly. “Get out of here, go home. Christ, the only sentimental Switzer in the whole world, and I get him. Wouldn’t you just know?”
Professor Gottesman actually awoke just before the telephone call came, as sometimes happens. He had dozed off in his favorite chair during a minor intellectual skirmish with the rhinoceros over Spinoza’s ethics. The rhinoceros itself was sprawled in its accustomed spot, snoring authoritatively, and the kitchen clock was still striking three when the phone rang. He picked it up slowly. Sally’s barely audible voice whispered, “Gus. The heart. Told you.” He heard the receiver fall from her hand.
Professor Gottesman had no memory of stumbling coatless out of the house, let alone finding his car parked on the street—he was just suddenly standing by it, his hands trembling so badly as he tried to unlock the door that he dropped his keys into the gutter. How long his frantic fumbling in the darkness went on, he could never say; but at some point he became aware of a deeper darkness over him, and looked up on hands and knees to see the rhinoceros.
“On my back,” it said, and no more. The Professor had barely scrambled up its warty, unyielding flanks and heaved himself precariously over the spine his legs could not straddle when there came a surge like the sea under him as the great beast leaped forward. He cried out in terror.
He would have expected, had he had wit enough at the moment to expect anything, that the rhinoceros would move at a ponderous trot, farting and rumbling, gradually building up a certain clumsy momentum. Instead, he felt himself flying, truly flying, as children know flying, flowing with the night sky, melting into the jeweled wind. If the rhinoceros’s huge, flat, three-toed feet touched the ground, he never felt it: nothing existed, or ever had existed, but the sky that he was and the bodiless power that he had become—he himself, the once and foolish old Professor Gustave Gottesman, his eyes full of the light of lost stars. He even forgot Sally Lowry, only for a moment, only for the least little time.
Then, he was standing in the courtyard before her house, shouting and banging maniacally on the door, pressing every button under his hand. The rhinoceros was nowhere to be seen. The building door finally buzzed open, and the Professor leaped up the stairs like a young man, calling Sally’s name. Her own door was unlocked; she often left it so absentmindedly, no matter how much he scolded her about it. She was in her bedroom, half-wedged between the side of the bed and the night table, with the telephone receiver dangling by her head. Professor Gottesman touched her cheek and felt the fading warmth.
“Ah, Sally,” he said. “Sally, my dear.” She was very heavy, but somehow it was easy for him to lift her back onto the bed and make a place for her among the books and papers that littered the quilt, as always. He found her harmonica on the floor, and closed her fingers around it. When there was nothing more for him to do, he sat beside her, still holding her hand, until the room began to grow light. At last he said aloud, “No, the sentimental Switzer will not cry, my dear Sally,” and picked up the telephone.
The rhinoceros did not return for many days after Sally Lowry’s death. Professor Gottesman missed it greatly when he thought about it at all, but it was a strange, confused time. He stayed at home, hardly eating, sleeping on his feet, opening books and closing them. He never answered the telephone, and he never changed his clothes. Sometimes he wandered endlessly upstairs and down through every room in his house; sometimes he stood in one place for an hour or more at a time, staring at nothing. Occasionally the doorbell rang, and worried voices outside called his name. It was late autumn, and then winter, and the house grew cold at night, because he had forgotten to turn on the furnace. Professor Gottesman was perfectly aware of this, and other things, somewhere.
One evening, or perhaps it was early one morning, he heard the sound of water running in the bathtub upstairs. He remembered the sound, and presently he moved to his living room chair to listen to it better. For the first time in some while, he fell asleep, and woke only when he felt the rhinoceros standing over him. In the darkness he saw it only as a huge, still shadow, but it smelled unmistakably like a rhinoceros that has just had a bath. The Professor said quietly, “I wondered where you had gone.”
“We unicorns mourn alone,” the rhinoceros replied. “I thought it might be the same for you.”
“Ah,” Professor Gottesman said. “Yes, most considerate. Thank you.”
He said nothing further, but sat staring into the shadow until it appeared to fold gently around him. The rhinoceros said, “We were speaking of Spinoza.”
Professor Gottesman did not answer. The rhinoceros went on, “I was very interested in the comparison you drew between Spinoza and Thomas Hobbes. I would enjoy continuing our discussion.”
“I do not think I can,” the Professor said at last. “I do not think I want to talk anymore.”
It seemed to him that the rhinoceros’s eyes had become larger and brighter in its own shadow, and its horn a trifle less hulking. But its stomach rumbled as majestically as ever as it said, “In that case, perhaps we should be on our way.”
“Where are we going?” Professor Gottesman asked. He was feeling oddly peaceful and disinclined to leave his chair. The rhinoceros moved closer, and for the first time that the Professor could remember, its huge, hairy muzzle touched his shoulder, light as a butterfly.
“I have lived in your house for a long time,” it said. “We have talked together, days and nights on end, about ways of being in this world, ways of considering it, ways of imagining it as a part of some greater imagining. Now has come the time for silence. Now, I think you should come and live with me.”
They were outside, on the sidewalk, in the night. Professor Gottesman had forgotten to take his coat, but he was not at all cold. He turned to look back at his house, watching it recede, its lights still burning, like a ship leaving him at his destination. He said to the rhinoceros, “What is your house like?”
“Comfortable,” the rhinoceros answered. “In honesty, I would not call the hot water as superbly lavish as yours, but there is rather more room to maneuver. Especially on the stairs.”
“You are walking a bit too rapidly for me,” said the Professor. “May I climb on your back once more?”
The rhinoceros halted immediately, saying, “By all means, please do excuse me.” Professor Gottesman found it notably easier to mount this time, the massive sides having plainly grown somewhat trimmer and smoother during the rhinoceros’s absence, and easier to grip with his legs. It started on briskly when he was properly settled, though not at the rapturous pace that had once married the Professor to the night wind. For some while he could hear the clopping of cloven hooves far below him, but then they seemed to fade away. He leaned forward and said into the rhinoceros’s pointed silken ear, “I should tell you that I have long since come to the conclusion that you are not after all an Indian rhinoceros, but a hitherto unknown species, somehow misclassified. I hope this will not make a difference in our relationship.”
“No difference, good Professor,” came the gently laughing answer all around him. “No difference in the world.”
“Come Lady Death” is the one bit of fiction salvaged from the year I spent at Stanford, in a writing class that included Larry McMurtry, Ken Kesey, Judith Rascoe, and my Kentucky buddy Gurney Norman. I did write an entire novel there, about which the less said, the better. But this short story, sold to The Atlantic, keeps being reprinted hither or thither to this day and was turned into an opera I’m still proud of. I wrote the libretto, David Carlson of San Francisco wrote the music, and The Midnight Angel, as our opera was entitled, was produced in St. Louis, Sacramento, Cooperstown, and most recently in Milwaukee. In some ways, I actually like it better than the original story!
Come Lady Death
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 of 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.”
