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

I did but waver for an instant. It is not too late to tell my readers that the climax of Zuleika’s entertainment was only that dismal affair, the Magic Canister.

It she took from the table, and, holding it aloft, cried “Now, before I say good night, I want to see if I have your confidence. But you mustn’t think this is the confidence trick!” She handed the vessel to The MacQuern, who, looking like an overgrown acolyte, bore it after her as she went again among the audience. Pausing before a man in the front row, she asked him if he would trust her with his watch. He held it out to her. “Thank you,” she said, letting her fingers touch his for a moment before she dropped it into the Magic Canister. From another man she borrowed a cigarette-case, from another a necktie, from another a pair of sleeve-links, from Noaks a ring⁠—one of those iron rings which are supposed, rightly or wrongly, to alleviate rheumatism. And when she had made an ample selection, she began her return-journey to the table.

On her way she saw in the shadow of the wall the figure of her forgotten Duke. She saw him, the one man she had ever loved, also the first man who had wished definitely to die for her; and she was touched by remorse. She had said she would remember him to her dying day; and already⁠ ⁠… But had he not refused her the wherewithal to remember him⁠—the pearls she needed as the clou of her dear collection, the great relic among relics?

“Would you trust me with your studs?” she asked him, in a voice that could be heard throughout the quadrangle, with a smile that was for him alone.

There was no help for it. He quickly extricated from his shirtfront the black pearl and the pink. Her thanks had a special emphasis.

The MacQuern placed the Magic Canister before her on the table. She pressed the outer sheath down on it. Then she inverted it so that the contents fell into the false lid; then she opened it, looked into it, and, exclaiming “Well, this is rather queer!” held it up so that the audience whose intelligence she was insulting might see there was nothing in it.

“Accidents,” she said, “will happen in the best-regulated canisters! But I think there is just a chance that I shall be able to restore your property. Excuse me for a moment.” She then shut the canister, released the false lid, made several passes over it, opened it, looked into it and said with a flourish, “Now I can clear my character!” Again she went among the crowd, attended by The MacQuern; and the loans⁠—priceless now because she had touched them⁠—were in due course severally restored. When she took the canister from her acolyte, only the two studs remained in it.

Not since the night of her flitting from the Gibbs’ humble home had Zuleika thieved. Was she a backslider? Would she rob the Duke, and his heir-presumptive, and Tanville-Tankertons yet unborn? Alas, yes. But what she now did was proof that she had qualms. And her way of doing it showed that for legerdemain she had after all a natural aptitude which, properly trained, might have won for her an honourable place in at least the second rank of contemporary prestidigitators. With a gesture of her disengaged hand, so swift as to be scarcely visible, she unhooked her earrings and “passed” them into the canister. This she did as she turned away from the crowd, on her way to the Duke. At the same moment, in a manner technically not less good, though morally deplorable, she withdrew the studs and “vanished” them into her bosom.

Was it triumph, or shame, or of both a little that so flushed her cheeks as she stood before the man she had robbed? Or was it the excitement of giving a present to the man she had loved? Certain it is that the nakedness of her ears gave a new look to her face⁠—a primitive look, open and sweetly wild. The Duke saw the difference, without noticing the cause. She was more adorable than ever. He blenched and swayed as in proximity to a loveliness beyond endurance. His heart cried out within him. A sudden mist came over his eyes.

In the canister that she held out to him, the two pearls rattled like dice.

“Keep them!” he whispered.

“I shall,” she whispered back, almost shyly. “But these, these are for you.” And she took one of his hands, and, holding it open, tilted the canister over it, and let drop into it the two earrings, and went quickly away.

As she reappeared at the table, the crowd gave her a long ovation of gratitude for her performance⁠—an ovation all the more impressive because it was solemn and subdued. She curtseyed again and again, not indeed with the timid simplicity of her first obeisance (so familiar already was she with the thought of the crowd’s doom), but rather in the manner of a prima donna⁠—chin up, eyelids down, all teeth manifest, and hands from the bosom flung ecstatically wide asunder.

You know how, at a concert, a prima donna who has just sung insists on shaking hands with the accompanist, and dragging him forward, to show how beautiful her nature is, into the applause that is for herself alone. And your heart, like mine, has gone out to the wretched victim. Even so would you have felt for The MacQuern when Zuleika, on the implied assumption that half the credit was his, grasped him by the wrist, and, continuing to curtsey, would not release him till the last echoes of the clapping had died away.

The ladies on the steps of the Hall moved down into the quadrangle, spreading their resentment like a miasma. The tragic passion of the crowd was merged in mere awkwardness. There was a general movement towards the College gate.

Zuleika was putting her tricks back into the great