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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
165
But
not
in
the
eyes
of
Nature.
She
abhors
a
vacuum.
Seeing
the
enormous
odds
against
which
the
Duke
was
fighting,
she
might
well
have
stood
aside.
But
she
has
no
sense
of
sport
whatsoever.
She
stepped
in.
At
first
I
did
not
realise
what
was
happening.
I
saw
the
Duke’s
eyes
contract,
and
the
muscles
of
his
mouth
drawn
down,
and,
at
the
same
time,
a
tense
upward
movement
of
his
whole
body.
Then,
suddenly,
the
strain
undone:
a
downward
dart
of
the
head,
a
loud
percussion.
Thrice
the
Duke
sneezed,
with
a
sound
that
was
as
the
bursting
of
the
dams
of
body
and
soul
together;
then
sneezed
again.
Now
was
his
will
broken.
He
capitulated.
In
rushed
shame
and
horror
and
hatred,
pell-mell,
to
ravage
him.
What
care
now,
what
use,
for
deportment?
He
walked
coweringly
round
and
round
his
room,
with
frantic
gestures,
with
head
bowed.
He
shuffled
and
slunk.
His
dressing-gown
had
the
look
of
a
gabardine.
Shame
and
horror
and
hatred
went
slashing
and
hewing
throughout
the
fallen
citadel.
At
length,
exhausted,
he
flung
himself
down
on
the
window-seat
and
leaned
out
into
the
night,
panting.
The
air
was
full
of
thunder.
He
clutched
at
his
throat.
From
the
depths
of
the
black
caverns
beneath
their
brows
the
eyes
of
the
unsleeping
Emperors
watched
him.
He
had
gone
through
much
in
the
day
that
was
past.
He
had
loved
and
lost.
He
had
striven
to
recapture,
and
had
failed.
In
a
strange
resolve
he
had
found
serenity
and
joy.
He
had
been
at
the
point
of
death,
and
had
been
saved.
He
had
seen
that
his
beloved
was
worthless,
and
he
had
not
cared.
He
had
fought
for
her,
and
conquered;
and
had
pled
with
her,
and--all
these
memories
were
loathsome
by
reason
of
that
final
thing
which
had
all
the
while
lain
in
wait
for
him.
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