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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
138
Yes,
that
is
how
she
might
have
seemed
to
a
casual
observer.
But
to
the
Duke
there
was
nothing
weird
about
her:
she
was
radiantly
a
woman;
a
goddess;
and
his
first
and
last
love.
Bitter
his
heart
was,
but
only
against
the
mob
she
wooed,
not
against
her
for
wooing
it.
She
was
cruel?
All
goddesses
are
that.
She
was
demeaning
herself?
His
soul
welled
up
anew
in
pity,
in
passion.
Yonder,
in
the
Hall,
the
concert
ran
its
course,
making
a
feeble
incidental
music
to
the
dark
emotions
of
the
quadrangle.
It
ended
somewhat
before
the
close
of
Zuleika’s
rival
show;
and
then
the
steps
from
the
Hall
were
thronged
by
ladies,
who,
with
a
sprinkling
of
dons,
stood
in
attitudes
of
refined
displeasure
and
vulgar
curiosity.
The
Warden
was
just
awake
enough
to
notice
the
sea
of
undergraduates.
Suspecting
some
breach
of
College
discipline,
he
retired
hastily
to
his
own
quarters,
for
fear
his
dignity
might
be
somehow
compromised.
Was
there
ever,
I
wonder,
an
historian
so
pure
as
not
to
have
wished
just
once
to
fob
off
on
his
readers
just
one
bright
fable
for
effect?
I
find
myself
sorely
tempted
to
tell
you
that
on
Zuleika,
as
her
entertainment
drew
to
a
close,
the
spirit
of
the
higher
thaumaturgy
descended
like
a
flame
and
found
in
her
a
worthy
agent.
Specious
Apollyon
whispers
to
me
“Where
would
be
the
harm?
Tell
your
readers
that
she
cast
a
seed
on
the
ground,
and
that
therefrom
presently
arose
a
tamarind-tree
which
blossomed
and
bore
fruit
and,
withering,
vanished.
Or
say
she
conjured
from
an
empty
basket
of
osier
a
hissing
and
bridling
snake.
Why
not?
Your
readers
would
be
excited,
gratified.
And
you
would
never
be
found
out.”
But
the
grave
eyes
of
Clio
are
bent
on
me,
her
servant.
Oh
pardon,
madam:
I
did
but
waver
for
an
instant.
It
is
not
too
late
to
tell
my
readers
that
the
climax
of
Zuleika’s
entertainment
was
only
that
dismal
affair,
the
Magic
Canister.
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