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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
169
“Death
knocks,
as
we
know,
at
the
door
of
the
cottage
and
of
the
castle.
He
stalks
up
the
front-garden
and
the
steep
steps
of
the
semi-detached
villa,
and
plies
the
ornamental
knocker
so
imperiously
that
the
panels
of
imitation
stained
glass
quiver
in
the
thin
front-door.
Even
the
family
that
occupies
the
topmost
story
of
a
building
without
a
lift
is
on
his
ghastly
visiting-list.
He
rattles
his
fleshless
knuckles
against
the
door
of
the
gypsy’s
caravan.
Into
the
savage’s
tent,
wigwam,
or
wattled
hut,
he
darts
unbidden.
Even
on
the
hermit
in
the
cave
he
forces
his
obnoxious
presence.
His
is
an
universal
beat,
and
he
walks
it
with
a
grin.
But
be
sure
it
is
at
the
sombre
portal
of
the
nobleman
that
he
knocks
with
the
greatest
gusto.
It
is
there,
where
haply
his
visit
will
be
commemorated
with
a
hatchment;
it
is
then,
when
the
muffled
thunder
of
the
Dead
March
in
‘Saul’
will
soon
be
rolling
in
cathedrals;
it
is
then,
it
is
there,
that
the
pride
of
his
unquestioned
power
comes
grimliest
home
to
him.
Is
there
no
withstanding
him?
Why
should
he
be
admitted
always
with
awe,
a
cravenly-honoured
guest?
When
next
he
calls,
let
the
butler
send
him
about
his
business,
or
tell
him
to
step
round
to
the
servants’
entrance.
If
it
be
made
plain
to
him
that
his
visits
are
an
impertinence,
he
will
soon
be
disemboldened.
Once
the
aristocracy
make
a
stand
against
him,
there
need
be
no
more
trouble
about
the
exorbitant
Duties
named
after
him.
And
for
the
hereditary
system--that
system
which
both
offends
the
common
sense
of
the
Radical,
and
wounds
the
Tory
by
its
implied
admission
that
noblemen
are
mortal--a
seemly
substitute
will
have
been
found.”
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