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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
136
So
was
it
seen
by
the
Duke,
as
he
stood
leaning
against
the
wall,
behind
Zuleika’s
table.
He
saw
it
as
a
monster
couchant
and
enchanted,
a
monster
that
was
to
die;
and
its
death
was
in
part
his
own
doing.
But
remorse
in
him
gave
place
to
hostility.
Zuleika
had
begun
her
performance.
She
was
producing
the
Barber’s
Pole
from
her
mouth.
And
it
was
to
her
that
the
Duke’s
heart
went
suddenly
out
in
tenderness
and
pity.
He
forgot
her
levity
and
vanity--her
wickedness,
as
he
had
inwardly
called
it.
He
thrilled
with
that
intense
anxiety
which
comes
to
a
man
when
he
sees
his
beloved
offering
to
the
public
an
exhibition
of
her
skill,
be
it
in
singing,
acting,
dancing,
or
any
other
art.
Would
she
acquit
herself
well?
The
lover’s
trepidation
is
painful
enough
when
the
beloved
has
genius--how
should
these
clods
appreciate
her?
and
who
set
them
in
judgment
over
her?
It
must
be
worse
when
the
beloved
has
mediocrity.
And
Zuleika,
in
conjuring,
had
rather
less
than
that.
Though
indeed
she
took
herself
quite
seriously
as
a
conjurer,
she
brought
to
her
art
neither
conscience
nor
ambition,
in
any
true
sense
of
those
words.
Since
her
debut,
she
had
learned
nothing
and
forgotten
nothing.
The
stale
and
narrow
repertory
which
she
had
acquired
from
Edward
Gibbs
was
all
she
had
to
offer;
and
this,
and
her
marked
lack
of
skill,
she
eked
out
with
the
self-same
“patter”
that
had
sufficed
that
impossible
young
man.
It
was
especially
her
jokes
that
now
sent
shudders
up
the
spine
of
her
lover,
and
brought
tears
to
his
eyes,
and
kept
him
in
a
state
of
terror
as
to
what
she
would
say
next.
“You
see,”
she
had
exclaimed
lightly
after
the
production
of
the
Barber’s
Pole,
“how
easy
it
is
to
set
up
business
as
a
hairdresser.”
Over
the
Demon
Egg-Cup
she
said
that
the
egg
was
“as
good
as
fresh.”
And
her
constantly
reiterated
catch-phrase--“Well,
this
is
rather
queer!”--was
the
most
distressing
thing
of
all.
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