Laura beamed. "How wonderfully honest! Most people come to funerals to pretend they cared. You come to celebrate. I like you."
She rather liked coincidences.
It was not, unfortunately, a question of whether Laura would attend the funeral; it was a question of how many funerals she would contrive to attend in the course of the week. Her obituaries, read with the thrilling detachment of a booking agent scanning racecards, had already yielded three promising prospects: a distant cousin who had left her a pug, a retired general whose liver had finally mutinied, and a wealthy philanthropist whose charities she had never patronized but whose buffet she had thoroughly admired.
"You are not Shelley. You are a woman of thirty-four who collects mourning clothes like other women collect butterflies. This man will ruin you." laura by saki pdf
Yours in mutual contempt, Julian
On the day the decree was finalized, Laura received a letter. It was from Julian, written on black-bordered paper—funeral stationery. She opened it with keen interest.
"Watch me," said Laura. The divorce was swift, scandalous, and deeply satisfying to Egbert, who attended the proceedings with a small bag of peppermints and an expression of vindicated gloom. Laura cited "fundamental incompatibility of temperament," which was technically true. Julian did not contest. He had, he told the judge, "come to believe in the possibility of redemption," which Laura noted down for future use as evidence of insanity. Laura beamed
"Love," she repeated, as though he had suggested installing a maypole in the drawing room. "Love is for people who have not discovered the pleasure of a well-attended inquest. Love is for the sort of people who send flowers to hospitals. Julian, I married you because you hated the same things I hated. If you start loving things, you will become indistinguishable from the common herd of humanity, and I shall have to divorce you."
Julian looked at her with an expression she had never seen before—soft, almost tender. It was disgusting.
The young man blinked. He was not accustomed to being liked at funerals. His name, it transpired, was Julian March, and by the time the last spadeful of earth had been thrown onto the general's coffin, he had agreed to walk Laura home. Egbert was horrified. You come to celebrate
Dear Laura, it read. You were right. Hatred is more reliable than love. I have spent these last weeks trying to love the world, and I find it insufferably tedious. The living are, as you once said, terribly particular. They expect gratitude, reciprocity, and other exhausting performances. I miss you. I miss our funerals. I miss the way you used to rank the sandwiches afterwards. Will you not reconsider?
"On the contrary," said Laura, "he will complete me. He hates everyone I hate—the living, that is. The dead he treats with appropriate respect. Last Tuesday we went to a funeral together for a woman neither of us had heard of, and he held my hand through the entire service. It was more romantic than Venice."
Laura read the letter twice. Then she smiled—a small, sharp smile that Egbert would have recognized as the prelude to something regrettable.
"Why not?" replied Laura, adjusting a hat that looked like a small, feathered hearse. "They will not complain of the crowding. And one meets such interesting people at funerals—people who are not merely dying to meet you, but have actually achieved the distinction of being dead in your vicinity."
"Enemy," said the young man. "The general ruined my father. Drove him to bankruptcy and an early grave. I came to make sure he was really dead."