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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
81
She
passed
among
them.
None
questioned
the
worthiness
of
her
escort.
Could
I
give
you
better
proof
the
awe
in
which
our
Duke
was
held?
Any
man
is
glad
to
be
seen
escorting
a
very
pretty
woman.
He
thinks
it
adds
to
his
prestige.
Whereas,
in
point
of
fact,
his
fellow-men
are
saying
merely
“Who’s
that
appalling
fellow
with
her?”
or
“Why
does
she
go
about
with
that
ass
So-and-So?”
Such
cavil
may
in
part
be
envy.
But
it
is
a
fact
that
no
man,
howsoever
graced,
can
shine
in
juxtaposition
to
a
very
pretty
woman.
The
Duke
himself
cut
a
poor
figure
beside
Zuleika.
Yet
not
one
of
all
the
undergraduates
felt
she
could
have
made
a
wiser
choice.
She
swept
among
them.
Her
own
intrinsic
radiance
was
not
all
that
flashed
from
her.
She
was
a
moving
reflector
and
refractor
of
all
the
rays
of
all
the
eyes
that
mankind
had
turned
on
her.
Her
mien
told
the
story
of
her
days.
Bright
eyes,
light
feet--she
trod
erect
from
a
vista
whose
glare
was
dazzling
to
all
beholders.
She
swept
among
them,
a
miracle,
overwhelming,
breath-bereaving.
Nothing
at
all
like
her
had
ever
been
seen
in
Oxford.
Mainly
architectural,
the
beauties
of
Oxford.
True,
the
place
is
no
longer
one-sexed.
There
are
the
virguncules
of
Somerville
and
Lady
Margaret’s
Hall;
but
beauty
and
the
lust
for
learning
have
yet
to
be
allied.
There
are
the
innumerable
wives
and
daughters
around
the
Parks,
running
in
and
out
of
their
little
red-brick
villas;
but
the
indignant
shade
of
celibacy
seems
to
have
called
down
on
the
dons
a
Nemesis
which
precludes
them
from
either
marrying
beauty
or
begetting
it.
(From
the
Warden’s
son,
that
unhappy
curate,
Zuleika
inherited
no
tittle
of
her
charm.
Some
of
it,
there
is
no
doubt,
she
did
inherit
from
the
circus-rider
who
was
her
mother.)
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