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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
5
A
moment
later,
a
certain
old
don
emerged
from
Blackwell’s,
where
he
had
been
buying
books.
Looking
across
the
road,
he
saw,
to
his
amazement,
great
beads
of
perspiration
glistening
on
the
brows
of
those
Emperors.
He
trembled,
and
hurried
away.
That
evening,
in
Common
Room,
he
told
what
he
had
seen;
and
no
amount
of
polite
scepticism
would
convince
him
that
it
was
but
the
hallucination
of
one
who
had
been
reading
too
much
Mommsen.
He
persisted
that
he
had
seen
what
he
described.
It
was
not
until
two
days
had
elapsed
that
some
credence
was
accorded
him.
Yes,
as
the
landau
rolled
by,
sweat
started
from
the
brows
of
the
Emperors.
They,
at
least,
foresaw
the
peril
that
was
overhanging
Oxford,
and
they
gave
such
warning
as
they
could.
Let
that
be
remembered
to
their
credit.
Let
that
incline
us
to
think
more
gently
of
them.
In
their
lives
we
know,
they
were
infamous,
some
of
them--“nihil
non
commiserunt
stupri,
saevitiae,
impietatis.”
But
are
they
too
little
punished,
after
all?
Here
in
Oxford,
exposed
eternally
and
inexorably
to
heat
and
frost,
to
the
four
winds
that
lash
them
and
the
rains
that
wear
them
away,
they
are
expiating,
in
effigy,
the
abominations
of
their
pride
and
cruelty
and
lust.
Who
were
lechers,
they
are
without
bodies;
who
were
tyrants,
they
are
crowned
never
but
with
crowns
of
snow;
who
made
themselves
even
with
the
gods,
they
are
by
American
visitors
frequently
mistaken
for
the
Twelve
Apostles.
It
is
but
a
little
way
down
the
road
that
the
two
Bishops
perished
for
their
faith,
and
even
now
we
do
never
pass
the
spot
without
a
tear
for
them.
Yet
how
quickly
they
died
in
the
flames!
To
these
Emperors,
for
whom
none
weeps,
time
will
give
no
surcease.
Surely,
it
is
sign
of
some
grace
in
them
that
they
rejoiced
not,
this
bright
afternoon,
in
the
evil
that
was
to
befall
the
city
of
their
penance.
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