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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
241
He
gasped
the
air
into
his
lungs,
and
he
remembered
what
it
was
that
he
needed
to
know.
Had
he
risen
in
mid-stream,
the
keel
of
the
Magdalen
boat
might
have
killed
him.
The
oars
of
Magdalen
did
all
but
graze
his
face.
The
eyes
of
the
Magdalen
cox
met
his.
The
cords
of
the
Magdalen
rudder
slipped
from
the
hands
that
held
them;
whereupon
the
Magdalen
man
who
rowed
“bow”
missed
his
stroke.
An
instant
later,
just
where
the
line
of
barges
begins,
Judas
had
bumped
Magdalen.
A
crash
of
thunder
deadened
the
din
of
the
stamping
and
dancing
crowd
on
the
towing-path.
The
rain
was
a
deluge
making
land
and
water
as
one.
And
the
conquered
crew,
and
the
conquering,
both
now
had
seen
the
face
of
the
Duke.
A
white
smiling
face,
anon
it
was
gone.
Dorset
was
gone
down
to
his
last
sleep.
Victory
and
defeat
alike
forgotten,
the
crews
staggered
erect
and
flung
themselves
into
the
river,
the
slender
boats
capsizing
and
spinning
futile
around
in
a
melley
of
oars.
From
the
towing-path--no
more
din
there
now,
but
great
single
cries
of
“Zuleika!”--leapt
figures
innumerable
through
rain
to
river.
The
arrested
boats
of
the
other
crews
drifted
zigzag
hither
and
thither.
The
dropped
oars
rocked
and
clashed,
sank
and
rebounded,
as
the
men
plunged
across
them
into
the
swirling
stream.
And
over
all
this
confusion
and
concussion
of
men
and
man-made
things
crashed
the
vaster
discords
of
the
heavens;
and
the
waters
of
the
heavens
fell
ever
denser
and
denser,
as
though
to
the
aid
of
waters
that
could
not
in
themselves
envelop
so
many
hundreds
of
struggling
human
forms.
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