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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
164
He
stood
quite
still,
a
figure
orgulous
and
splendent.
And
it
seemed
as
though
the
hot
night,
too,
stood
still,
to
watch
him,
in
awe,
through
the
open
lattices
of
his
window,
breathlessly.
But
to
me,
equipped
to
see
beneath
the
surface,
he
was
piteous,
piteous
in
ratio
to
the
pretension
of
his
aspect.
Had
he
crouched
down
and
sobbed,
I
should
have
been
as
much
relieved
as
he.
But
he
stood
seignorial
and
aquiline.
Painless,
by
comparison
with
this
conflict
in
him,
seemed
the
conflict
that
had
raged
in
him
yesternight.
Then,
it
had
been
his
dandihood
against
his
passion
for
Zuleika.
What
mattered
the
issue?
Whichever
won,
the
victory
were
sweet.
And
of
this
he
had
all
the
while
been
subconscious,
gallantly
though
he
fought
for
his
pride
of
dandihood.
To-night
in
the
battle
between
pride
and
memory,
he
knew
from
the
outset
that
pride’s
was
but
a
forlorn
hope,
and
that
memory
would
be
barbarous
in
her
triumph.
Not
winning
to
oblivion,
he
must
hate
with
a
fathomless
hatred.
Of
all
the
emotions,
hatred
is
the
most
excruciating.
Of
all
the
objects
of
hatred,
a
woman
once
loved
is
the
most
hateful.
Of
all
deaths,
the
bitterest
that
can
befall
a
man
is
that
he
lay
down
his
life
to
flatter
the
woman
he
deems
vilest
of
her
sex.
Such
was
the
death
that
the
Duke
of
Dorset
saw
confronting
him.
Most
men,
when
they
are
at
war
with
the
past,
have
the
future
as
ally.
Looking
steadfastly
forward,
they
can
forget.
The
Duke’s
future
was
openly
in
league
with
his
past.
For
him,
prospect
was
memory.
All
that
there
was
for
him
of
future
was
the
death
to
which
his
honour
was
pledged.
To
envisage
that
was
to...
no,
he
would
NOT
envisage
it!
With
a
passionate
effort
he
hypnotised
himself
to
think
of
nothing
at
all.
His
brain,
into
which,
by
the
power
Zeus
gave
me,
I
was
gazing,
became
a
perfect
vacuum,
insulated
by
the
will.
It
was
the
kind
of
experiment
which
scientists
call
“beautiful.”
And
yes,
beautiful
it
was.
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