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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
21
Though
Zuleika
had
never
given
her
heart,
strong
in
her
were
the
desire
and
the
need
that
it
should
be
given.
Whithersoever
she
had
fared,
she
had
seen
nothing
but
youths
fatuously
prostrate
to
her--not
one
upright
figure
which
she
could
respect.
There
were
the
middle-aged
men,
the
old
men,
who
did
not
bow
down
to
her;
but
from
middle-age,
as
from
eld,
she
had
a
sanguine
aversion.
She
could
love
none
but
a
youth.
Nor--though
she
herself,
womanly,
would
utterly
abase
herself
before
her
ideal--could
she
love
one
who
fell
prone
before
her.
And
before
her
all
youths
always
did
fall
prone.
She
was
an
empress,
and
all
youths
were
her
slaves.
Their
bondage
delighted
her,
as
I
have
said.
But
no
empress
who
has
any
pride
can
adore
one
of
her
slaves.
Whom,
then,
could
proud
Zuleika
adore?
It
was
a
question
which
sometimes
troubled
her.
There
were
even
moments
when,
looking
into
her
cheval-glass,
she
cried
out
against
that
arrangement
in
comely
lines
and
tints
which
got
for
her
the
dulia
she
delighted
in.
To
be
able
to
love
once--would
not
that
be
better
than
all
the
homage
in
the
world?
But
would
she
ever
meet
whom,
looking
up
to
him,
she
could
love--she,
the
omnisubjugant?
Would
she
ever,
ever
meet
him?
It
was
when
she
wondered
thus,
that
the
wistfulness
came
into
her
eyes.
Even
now,
as
she
sat
by
the
window,
that
shadow
returned
to
them.
She
was
wondering,
shyly,
had
she
met
him
at
length?
That
young
equestrian
who
had
not
turned
to
look
at
her;
whom
she
was
to
meet
at
dinner
to-night...
was
it
he?
The
ends
of
her
blue
sash
lay
across
her
lap,
and
she
was
lazily
unravelling
their
fringes.
“Blue
and
white!”
she
remembered.
“They
were
the
colours
he
wore
round
his
hat.”
And
she
gave
a
little
laugh
of
coquetry.
She
laughed,
and,
long
after,
her
lips
were
still
parted
in
a
smile.
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