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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
256
And
for
a
while
this
scene
was
looked
down
on
by
a
not
disinterested
stranger.
For
a
while,
her
chin
propped
on
her
hands,
Zuleika
leaned
over
the
rail
of
the
gallery,
just
as
she
had
lately
leaned
over
the
barge’s
rail,
staring
down
and
along.
But
there
was
no
spark
of
triumph
now
in
her
eyes;
only
a
deep
melancholy;
and
in
her
mouth
a
taste
as
of
dust
and
ashes.
She
thought
of
last
night,
and
of
all
the
buoyant
life
that
this
Hall
had
held.
Of
the
Duke
she
thought,
and
of
the
whole
vivid
and
eager
throng
of
his
fellows
in
love.
Her
will,
their
will,
had
been
done.
But,
there
rose
to
her
lips
the
old,
old
question
that
withers
victory--“To
what
end?”
Her
eyes
ranged
along
the
tables,
and
an
appalling
sense
of
loneliness
swept
over
her.
She
turned
away,
wrapping
the
folds
of
her
cloak
closer
across
her
breast.
Not
in
this
College
only,
but
through
and
through
Oxford,
there
was
no
heart
that
beat
for
her--no,
not
one,
she
told
herself,
with
that
instinct
for
self-torture
which
comes
to
souls
in
torment.
She
was
utterly
alone
to-night
in
the
midst
of
a
vast
indifference.
She!
She!
Was
it
possible?
Were
the
gods
so
merciless?
Ah
no,
surely...
Down
at
the
high
table
the
feast
drew
to
its
close,
and
very
different
was
the
mood
of
the
feasters
from
that
of
the
young
woman
whose
glance
had
for
a
moment
rested
on
their
unromantic
heads.
Generations
of
undergraduates
had
said
that
Oxford
would
be
all
very
well
but
for
the
dons.
Do
you
suppose
that
the
dons
had
had
no
answering
sentiment?
Youth
is
a
very
good
thing
to
possess,
no
doubt;
but
it
is
a
tiresome
setting
for
maturity.
Youth
all
around
prancing,
vociferating,
mocking;
callow
and
alien
youth,
having
to
be
looked
after
and
studied
and
taught,
as
though
nothing
but
it
mattered,
term
after
term--and
now,
all
of
a
sudden,
in
mid-term,
peace,
ataraxy,
a
profound
and
leisured
stillness.
No
lectures
to
deliver
to-morrow;
no
“essays”
to
hear
and
criticise;
time
for
the
unvexed
pursuit
of
pure
learning...
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