Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

not utterly demolish me, I hope,” said the Duke. His was the Oxford manner. “Gentlemen,” he continued, “is it possible that Britannia would have thrown her helmet in the air, shrieking ‘Slavery forever’? You, gentlemen, seem to think slavery a pleasant and an honourable state. You have less experience of it than I. I have been enslaved to Miss Dobson since yesterday evening; you, only since this afternoon; I, at close quarters; you, at a respectful distance. Your fetters have not galled you yet. My wrists, my ankles, are excoriated. The iron has entered into my soul. I droop. I stumble. Blood flows from me. I quiver and curse. I writhe. The sun mocks me. The moon titters in my face. I can stand it no longer. I will no more of it. Tomorrow I die.”

The flushed faces of the diners grew gradually pale. Their eyes lost lustre. Their tongues clove to the roofs of their mouths.

At length, almost inaudibly, The MacQuern asked “Do you mean you are going to commit suicide?”

“Yes,” said the Duke, “if you choose to put it in that way. Yes. And it is only by a chance that I did not commit suicide this afternoon.”

“You⁠—don’t⁠—say,” gasped Mr. Oover.

“I do indeed,” said the Duke. “And I ask you all to weigh well my message.”

“But⁠—but does Miss Dobson know?” asked Sir John.

“Oh yes,” was the reply. “Indeed, it was she who persuaded me not to die till tomorrow.”

“But⁠—but,” faltered Lord Sayes, “I saw her saying goodbye to you in Judas Street. And⁠—and she looked quite⁠—as if nothing had happened.”

“Nothing had happened,” said the Duke. “And she was very much pleased to have me still with her. But she isn’t so cruel as to hinder me from dying for her tomorrow. I don’t think she exactly fixed the hour. It shall be just after the Eights have been rowed. An earlier death would mark in me a lack of courtesy to that contest⁠ ⁠… It seems strange to you that I should do this thing? Take warning by me. Muster all your willpower, and forget Miss Dobson. Tear up your tickets for the concert. Stay here and play cards. Play high. Or rather, go back to your various Colleges, and speed the news I have told you. Put all Oxford on its guard against this woman who can love no lover. Let all Oxford know that I, Dorset, who had so much reason to love life⁠—I, the nonpareil⁠—am going to die for the love I bear this woman. And let no man think I go unwilling. I am no lamb led to the slaughter. I am priest as well as victim. I offer myself up with a pious joy. But enough of this cold Hebraism! It is ill-attuned to my soul’s mood. Self-sacrifice⁠—bah! Regard me as a voluptuary. I am that. All my baffled ardour speeds me to the bosom of Death. She is gentle and wanton. She knows I could never have loved her for her own sake. She has no illusions about me. She knows well I come to her because not otherwise may I quench my passion.”

There was a long silence. The Duke, looking around at the bent heads and drawn mouths of his auditors, saw that his words had gone home. It was Marraby who revealed how powerfully home they had gone.

“Dorset,” he said huskily, “I shall die too.”

The Duke flung up his hands, staring wildly.

“I stand in with that,” said Mr. Oover.

“So do I!” said Lord Sayes. “And I!” said Mr. Trent-Garby; “And I!” The MacQuern.

The Duke found voice. “Are you mad?” he asked, clutching at his throat. “Are you all mad?”

“No, Duke,” said Mr. Oover. “Or, if we are, you have no right to be at large. You have shown us the way. We⁠—take it.”

“Just so,” said The MacQuern, stolidly.

“Listen, you fools,” cried the Duke. But through the open window came the vibrant stroke of some clock. He wheeled round, plucked out his watch⁠—nine!⁠—the concert!⁠—his promise not to be late!⁠—Zuleika!

All other thoughts vanished. In an instant he dodged beneath the sash of the window. From the flower-box he sprang to the road beneath. (The façade of the house is called, to this day, Dorset’s Leap.) Alighting with the legerity of a cat, he swerved leftward in the recoil, and was off, like a streak of mulberry-coloured lightning, down the High.

The other men had rushed to the window, fearing the worst. “No,” cried Oover. “That’s all right. Saves time!” and he raised himself on to the window-box. It splintered under his weight. He leapt heavily but well, followed by some uprooted geraniums. Squaring his shoulders, he threw back his head, and doubled down the slope.

There was a violent jostle between the remaining men. The MacQuern cannily got out of it, and rushed downstairs. He emerged at the front-door just after Marraby touched ground. The Baronet’s left ankle had twisted under him. His face was drawn with pain as he hopped down the High on his right foot, fingering his ticket for the concert. Next leapt Lord Sayes. And last of all leapt Mr. Trent-Garby, who, catching his foot in the ruined flower-box, fell headlong, and was, I regret to say, killed. Lord Sayes passed Sir John in a few paces. The MacQuern overtook Mr. Oover at St. Mary’s and outstripped him in Radcliffe Square. The Duke came in an easy first.

Youth, youth!

IX

Across the Front Quadrangle, heedless of the great crowd to right and left, Dorset rushed. Up the stone steps to the Hall he bounded, and only on the Hall’s threshold was he brought to a pause. The doorway was blocked by the backs of youths who had by hook and crook secured standing-room. The whole scene was surprisingly unlike that of the average College concert.

“Let me pass,” said the Duke, rather breathlessly. “Thank you. Make way please. Thanks.” And with quick-pulsing heart he made his way down the aisle to the front row. There awaited him a surprise that was like a douche of