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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
78
Seldom
is
even
a
fierce
bulldog
heard
to
growl.
Yet
Corker
growled
at
Zuleika.
VII
The
Duke
did
not
try
to
break
the
stony
silence
in
which
Zuleika
walked.
Her
displeasure
was
a
luxury
to
him,
for
it
was
so
soon
to
be
dispelled.
A
little
while,
and
she
would
be
hating
herself
for
her
pettiness.
Here
was
he,
going
to
die
for
her;
and
here
was
she,
blaming
him
for
a
breach
of
manners.
Decidedly,
the
slave
had
the
whip-hand.
He
stole
a
sidelong
look
at
her,
and
could
not
repress
a
smile.
His
features
quickly
composed
themselves.
The
Triumph
of
Death
must
not
be
handled
as
a
cheap
score.
He
wanted
to
die
because
he
would
thereby
so
poignantly
consummate
his
love,
express
it
so
completely,
once
and
for
all...
And
she--who
could
say
that
she,
knowing
what
he
had
done,
might
not,
illogically,
come
to
love
him?
Perhaps
she
would
devote
her
life
to
mourning
him.
He
saw
her
bending
over
his
tomb,
in
beautiful
humble
curves,
under
a
starless
sky,
watering
the
violets
with
her
tears.
Shades
of
Novalis
and
Friedrich
Schlegel
and
other
despicable
maunderers!
He
brushed
them
aside.
He
would
be
practical.
The
point
was,
when
and
how
to
die?
Time:
the
sooner
the
better.
Manner:..
less
easy
to
determine.
He
must
not
die
horribly,
nor
without
dignity.
The
manner
of
the
Roman
philosophers?
But
the
only
kind
of
bath
which
an
undergraduate
can
command
is
a
hip-bath.
Stay!
there
was
the
river.
Drowning
(he
had
often
heard)
was
a
rather
pleasant
sensation.
And
to
the
river
he
was
even
now
on
his
way.
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