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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
118
Sitting
beside
him,
the
Duke
looked
curiously
at
the
venerable
profile,
as
at
a
mummy’s.
To
think
that
this
had
once
been
a
man!
To
think
that
his
blood
flowed
in
the
veins
of
Zuleika!
Hitherto
the
Duke
had
seen
nothing
grotesque
in
him--had
regarded
him
always
as
a
dignified
specimen
of
priest
and
scholar.
Such
a
life
as
the
Warden’s,
year
following
year
in
ornamental
seclusion
from
the
follies
and
fusses
of
the
world,
had
to
the
Duke
seemed
rather
admirable
and
enviable.
Often
he
himself
had
(for
a
minute
or
so)
meditated
taking
a
fellowship
at
All
Souls
and
spending
here
in
Oxford
the
greater
part
of
his
life.
He
had
never
been
young,
and
it
never
had
occurred
to
him
that
the
Warden
had
been
young
once.
To-night
he
saw
the
old
man
in
a
new
light--saw
that
he
was
mad.
Here
was
a
man
who--for
had
he
not
married
and
begotten
a
child?--must
have
known,
in
some
degree,
the
emotion
of
love.
How,
after
that,
could
he
have
gone
on
thus,
year
by
year,
rusting
among
his
books,
asking
no
favour
of
life,
waiting
for
death
without
a
sign
of
impatience?
Why
had
he
not
killed
himself
long
ago?
Why
cumbered
he
the
earth?
On
the
dais
an
undergraduate
was
singing
a
song
entitled
“She
Loves
Not
Me.”
Such
plaints
are
apt
to
leave
us
unharrowed.
Across
the
footlights
of
an
opera-house,
the
despair
of
some
Italian
tenor
in
red
tights
and
a
yellow
wig
may
be
convincing
enough.
Not
so,
at
a
concert,
the
despair
of
a
shy
British
amateur
in
evening
dress.
The
undergraduate
on
the
dais,
fumbling
with
his
sheet
of
music
while
he
predicted
that
only
when
he
were
“laid
within
the
church-yard
cold
and
grey”
would
his
lady
begin
to
pity
him,
seemed
to
the
Duke
rather
ridiculous;
but
not
half
so
ridiculous
as
the
Warden.
This
fictitious
love-affair
was
less
nugatory
than
the
actual
humdrum
for
which
Dr.
Dobson
had
sold
his
soul
to
the
devil.
Also,
little
as
one
might
suspect
it,
the
warbler
was
perhaps
expressing
a
genuine
sentiment.
Zuleika
herself,
belike,
was
in
his
thoughts.
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