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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
166
He
looked
back
and
saw
himself
as
he
had
been
at
a
score
of
crucial
moments
in
the
day--always
in
the
shadow
of
that
final
thing.
He
saw
himself
as
he
had
been
on
the
playing-fields
of
Eton;
aye!
and
in
the
arms
of
his
nurse,
to
and
fro
on
the
terrace
of
Tankerton--always
in
the
shadow
of
that
final
thing,
always
piteous
and
ludicrous,
doomed.
Thank
heaven
the
future
was
unknowable?
It
wasn’t,
now.
To-morrow--to-day--he
must
die
for
that
accursed
fiend
of
a
woman--the
woman
with
the
hyena
laugh.
What
to
do
meanwhile?
Impossible
to
sleep.
He
felt
in
his
body
the
strain
of
his
quick
sequence
of
spiritual
adventures.
He
was
dog-tired.
But
his
brain
was
furiously
out
of
hand:
no
stopping
it.
And
the
night
was
stifling.
And
all
the
while,
in
the
dead
silence,
as
though
his
soul
had
ears,
there
was
a
sound.
It
was
a
very
faint,
unearthly
sound,
and
seemed
to
come
from
nowhere,
yet
to
have
a
meaning.
He
feared
he
was
rather
over-wrought.
He
must
express
himself.
That
would
soothe
him.
Ever
since
childhood
he
had
had,
from
time
to
time,
the
impulse
to
set
down
in
writing
his
thoughts
or
his
moods.
In
such
exercises
he
had
found
for
his
self-consciousness
the
vent
which
natures
less
reserved
than
his
find
in
casual
talk
with
Tom,
Dick
and
Harry,
with
Jane,
Susan,
and
Liz.
Aloof
from
either
of
these
triads,
he
had
in
his
first
term
at
Eton
taken
to
himself
as
confidant,
and
retained
ever
since,
a
great
quarto
volume,
bound
in
red
morocco
and
stamped
with
his
coronet
and
cypher.
It
was
herein,
year
by
year,
that
his
soul
spread
itself.
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