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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
47
“I
have
never
looked
at
her,”
said
the
Duke.
“No
wonder,
then,
that
she
loves
you,”
sighed
Zuleika.
“She
read
my
secret
at
a
glance.
Women
who
love
the
same
man
have
a
kind
of
bitter
freemasonry.
We
resented
each
other.
She
envied
me
my
beauty,
my
dress.
I
envied
the
little
fool
her
privilege
of
being
always
near
to
you.
Loving
you,
I
could
conceive
no
life
sweeter
than
hers--to
be
always
near
you;
to
black
your
boots,
carry
up
your
coals,
scrub
your
doorstep;
always
to
be
working
for
you,
hard
and
humbly
and
without
thanks.
If
you
had
refused
to
see
me,
I
would
have
bribed
that
girl
with
all
my
jewels
to
cede
me
her
position.”
The
Duke
made
a
step
towards
her.
“You
would
do
it
still,”
he
said
in
a
low
voice.
Zuleika
raised
her
eyebrows.
“I
would
not
offer
her
one
garnet,”
she
said,
“now.”
“You
SHALL
love
me
again,”
he
cried.
“I
will
force
you
to.
You
said
just
now
that
you
had
ceased
to
love
me
because
I
was
just
like
other
men.
I
am
not.
My
heart
is
no
tablet
of
mere
wax,
from
which
an
instant’s
heat
can
dissolve
whatever
impress
it
may
bear,
leaving
it
blank
and
soft
for
another
impress,
and
another,
and
another.
My
heart
is
a
bright
hard
gem,
proof
against
any
die.
Came
Cupid,
with
one
of
his
arrow-points
for
graver,
and
what
he
cut
on
the
gem’s
surface
never
can
be
effaced.
There,
deeply
and
forever,
your
image
is
intagliated.
No
years,
nor
fires,
nor
cataclysm
of
total
Nature,
can
efface
from
that
great
gem
your
image.”
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