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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
277
“You
speak
in
riddles,
Zuleika.”
“I
wish
with
all
my
heart
I
need
not
tell
you
the
answers.
I
think
I
have
a
very
real
grievance
against
your
staff--or
whatever
it
is
you
call
your
subordinates
here.
I
go
so
far
as
to
dub
them
dodderers.
And
I
shall
the
better
justify
that
term
by
not
shirking
the
duty
they
have
left
undone.
The
reason
why
there
were
no
undergraduates
in
your
Hall
to-night
is
that
they
were
all
dead.”
“Dead?”
he
gasped.
“Dead?
It
is
disgraceful
that
I
was
not
told.
What
did
they
die
of?”
“Of
me.”
“Of
you?”
“Yes.
I
am
an
epidemic,
grand-papa,
a
scourge,
such
as
the
world
has
not
known.
Those
young
men
drowned
themselves
for
love
of
me.”
He
came
towards
her.
“Do
you
realise,
girl,
what
this
means
to
me?
I
am
an
old
man.
For
more
than
half
a
century
I
have
known
this
College.
To
it,
when
my
wife
died,
I
gave
all
that
there
was
of
heart
left
in
me.
For
thirty
years
I
have
been
Warden;
and
in
that
charge
has
been
all
my
pride.
I
have
had
no
thought
but
for
this
great
College,
its
honour
and
prosperity.
More
than
once
lately
have
I
asked
myself
whether
my
eyes
were
growing
dim,
my
hand
less
steady.
‘No’
was
my
answer,
and
again
‘No.’
And
thus
it
is
that
I
have
lingered
on
to
let
Judas
be
struck
down
from
its
high
eminence,
shamed
in
the
eyes
of
England--a
College
for
ever
tainted,
and
of
evil
omen.”
He
raised
his
head.
“The
disgrace
to
myself
is
nothing.
I
care
not
how
parents
shall
rage
against
me,
and
the
Heads
of
other
Colleges
make
merry
over
my
decrepitude.
It
is
because
you
have
wrought
the
downfall
of
Judas
that
I
am
about
to
lay
my
undying
curse
on
you.”
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