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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
2
ILLI
ALMAE
MATRI
ZULEIKA
DOBSON
I
That
old
bell,
presage
of
a
train,
had
just
sounded
through
Oxford
station;
and
the
undergraduates
who
were
waiting
there,
gay
figures
in
tweed
or
flannel,
moved
to
the
margin
of
the
platform
and
gazed
idly
up
the
line.
Young
and
careless,
in
the
glow
of
the
afternoon
sunshine,
they
struck
a
sharp
note
of
incongruity
with
the
worn
boards
they
stood
on,
with
the
fading
signals
and
grey
eternal
walls
of
that
antique
station,
which,
familiar
to
them
and
insignificant,
does
yet
whisper
to
the
tourist
the
last
enchantments
of
the
Middle
Age.
At
the
door
of
the
first-class
waiting-room,
aloof
and
venerable,
stood
the
Warden
of
Judas.
An
ebon
pillar
of
tradition
seemed
he,
in
his
garb
of
old-fashioned
cleric.
Aloft,
between
the
wide
brim
of
his
silk
hat
and
the
white
extent
of
his
shirt-front,
appeared
those
eyes
which
hawks,
that
nose
which
eagles,
had
often
envied.
He
supported
his
years
on
an
ebon
stick.
He
alone
was
worthy
of
the
background.
Came
a
whistle
from
the
distance.
The
breast
of
an
engine
was
descried,
and
a
long
train
curving
after
it,
under
a
flight
of
smoke.
It
grew
and
grew.
Louder
and
louder,
its
noise
foreran
it.
It
became
a
furious,
enormous
monster,
and,
with
an
instinct
for
safety,
all
men
receded
from
the
platform’s
margin.
(Yet
came
there
with
it,
unknown
to
them,
a
danger
far
more
terrible
than
itself.)
Into
the
station
it
came
blustering,
with
cloud
and
clangour.
Ere
it
had
yet
stopped,
the
door
of
one
carriage
flew
open,
and
from
it,
in
a
white
travelling
dress,
in
a
toque
a-twinkle
with
fine
diamonds,
a
lithe
and
radiant
creature
slipped
nimbly
down
to
the
platform.
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