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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
182
XV
Humphrey
Greddon,
in
the
Duke’s
place,
would
have
taken
a
pinch
of
snuff.
But
he
could
not
have
made
that
gesture
with
a
finer
air
than
the
Duke
gave
to
its
modern
equivalent.
In
the
art
of
taking
and
lighting
a
cigarette,
there
was
one
man
who
had
no
rival
in
Europe.
This
time
he
outdid
even
himself.
“Ah,”
you
say,
“but
‘pluck’
is
one
thing,
endurance
another.
A
man
who
doesn’t
reel
on
receipt
of
his
death-warrant
may
yet
break
down
when
he
has
had
time
to
think
it
over.
How
did
the
Duke
acquit
himself
when
he
came
to
the
end
of
his
cigarette?
And
by
the
way,
how
was
it
that
after
he
had
read
the
telegram
you
didn’t
give
him
again
an
hour’s
grace?”
In
a
way,
you
have
a
perfect
right
to
ask
both
those
questions.
But
their
very
pertinence
shows
that
you
think
I
might
omit
things
that
matter.
Please
don’t
interrupt
me
again.
Am
I
writing
this
history,
or
are
you?
Though
the
news
that
he
must
die
was
a
yet
sharper
douche,
as
you
have
suggested,
than
the
douche
inflicted
by
Zuleika,
it
did
at
least
leave
unscathed
the
Duke’s
pride.
The
gods
can
make
a
man
ridiculous
through
a
woman,
but
they
cannot
make
him
ridiculous
when
they
deal
him
a
blow
direct.
The
very
greatness
of
their
power
makes
them,
in
that
respect,
impotent.
They
had
decreed
that
the
Duke
should
die,
and
they
had
told
him
so.
There
was
nothing
to
demean
him
in
that.
True,
he
had
just
measured
himself
against
them.
But
there
was
no
shame
in
being
gravelled.
The
peripety
was
according
to
the
best
rules
of
tragic
art.
The
whole
thing
was
in
the
grand
manner.
Marker
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Circle
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Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
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Sieve
Purify
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Start over
