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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
155
Ever
since
I
can
remember,
I
have
been
beset
by
a
recurring
doubt
as
to
whether
I
be
or
be
not
quite
a
gentleman.
I
have
never
attempted
to
define
that
term:
I
have
but
feverishly
wondered
whether
in
its
usual
acceptation
(whatever
that
is)
it
be
strictly
applicable
to
myself.
Many
people
hold
that
the
qualities
connoted
by
it
are
primarily
moral--a
kind
heart,
honourable
conduct,
and
so
forth.
On
Clio’s
mission,
I
found
honour
and
kindness
tugging
me
in
precisely
opposite
directions.
In
so
far
as
honour
tugged
the
harder,
was
I
the
more
or
the
less
gentlemanly?
But
the
test
is
not
a
fair
one.
Curiosity
tugged
on
the
side
of
honour.
This
goes
to
prove
me
a
cad?
Oh,
set
against
it
the
fact
that
I
did
at
one
point
betray
Clio’s
trust.
When
Miss
Dobson
had
done
the
deed
recorded
at
the
close
of
the
foregoing
chapter,
I
gave
the
Duke
of
Dorset
an
hour’s
grace.
I
could
have
done
no
less.
In
the
lives
of
most
of
us
is
some
one
thing
that
we
would
not
after
the
lapse
of
how
many
years
soever
confess
to
our
most
understanding
friend;
the
thing
that
does
not
bear
thinking
of;
the
one
thing
to
be
forgotten;
the
unforgettable
thing.
Not
the
commission
of
some
great
crime:
this
can
be
atoned
for
by
great
penances;
and
the
very
enormity
of
it
has
a
dark
grandeur.
Maybe,
some
little
deadly
act
of
meanness,
some
hole-and-corner
treachery?
But
what
a
man
has
once
willed
to
do,
his
will
helps
him
to
forget.
The
unforgettable
thing
in
his
life
is
usually
not
a
thing
he
has
done
or
left
undone,
but
a
thing
done
to
him--some
insolence
or
cruelty
for
which
he
could
not,
or
did
not,
avenge
himself.
This
it
is
that
often
comes
back
to
him,
years
after,
in
his
dreams,
and
thrusts
itself
suddenly
into
his
waking
thoughts,
so
that
he
clenches
his
hands,
and
shakes
his
head,
and
hums
a
tune
loudly--anything
to
beat
it
off.
In
the
very
hour
when
first
befell
him
that
odious
humiliation,
would
you
have
spied
on
him?
I
gave
the
Duke
of
Dorset
an
hour’s
grace.
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