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

those musty archives were changed to a crisp morning paper agog with terrific headlines⁠—he remembered the awful resolve of Oover, and of all young Oxford.

“Of course,” he asked, with a lightness that hardly hid his dread of the answer, “you have dismissed the notion you were toying with when I left you?”

Oover’s face, like his nature, was as sensitive as it was massive, and it instantly expressed his pain at the doubt cast on his high seriousness. “Duke,” he asked, “d’you take me for a skunk?”

“Without pretending to be quite sure what a skunk is,” said the Duke, “I take you to be all that it isn’t. And the high esteem in which I hold you is the measure for me of the loss that your death would be to America and to Oxford.”

Oover blushed. “Duke,” he said, “that’s a bully testimonial. But don’t worry. America can turn out millions just like me, and Oxford can have as many of them as she can hold. On the other hand, how many of you can be turned out, as per sample, in England? Yet you choose to destroy yourself. You avail yourself of the Unwritten Law. And you’re right, Sir. Love transcends all.”

“But does it? What if I told you I had changed my mind?”

“Then, Duke,” said Oover, slowly, “I should believe that all those yarns I used to hear about the British aristocracy were true, after all. I should aver that you were not a white man. Leading us on like that, and then⁠—Say, Duke! Are you going to die today, or not?”

“As a matter of fact, I am, but⁠—”

“Shake!”

“But⁠—”

Oover wrung the Duke’s hand, and was passing on. “Stay!” he was adjured.

“Sorry, unable. It’s just turning eleven o’clock, and I’ve a lecture. While life lasts, I’m bound to respect Rhodes’ intentions.” The conscientious Scholar hurried away.

The Duke wandered down the High, taking counsel with himself. He was ashamed of having so utterly forgotten the mischief he had wrought at large. At dawn he had vowed to undo it. Undo it he must. But the task was not a simple one now. If he could say, “Behold, I take back my word. I spurn Miss Dobson, and embrace life,” it was possible that his example would suffice. But now that he could only say, “Behold, I spurn Miss Dobson, and will not die for her, but I am going to commit suicide, all the same,” it was clear that his words would carry very little force. Also, he saw with pain that they placed him in a somewhat ludicrous position. His end, as designed yesterday, had a large and simple grandeur. So had his recantation of it. But this new compromise between the two things had a fumbled, a feeble, an ignoble look. It seemed to combine all the disadvantages of both courses. It stained his honour without prolonging his life. Surely, this was a high price to pay for snubbing Zuleika⁠ ⁠… Yes, he must revert without more ado to his first scheme. He must die in the manner that he had blazoned forth. And he must do it with a good grace, none knowing he was not glad; else the action lost all dignity. True, this was no way to be a saviour. But only by not dying at all could he have set a really potent example.⁠ ⁠… He remembered the look that had come into Oover’s eyes just now at the notion of his unfaith. Perhaps he would have been the mock, not the saviour, of Oxford. Better dishonour than death, maybe. But, since die he must, he must die not belittling or tarnishing the name of Tanville-Tankerton.

Within these bounds, however, he must put forth his full might to avert the general catastrophe⁠—and to punish Zuleika nearly well enough, after all, by intercepting that vast nosegay from her outstretched hands and her distended nostrils. There was no time to be lost, then. But he wondered, as he paced the grand curve between St. Mary’s and Magdalen Bridge, just how was he to begin?

Down the flight of steps from Queen’s came lounging an average undergraduate.

“Mr. Smith,” said the Duke, “a word with you.”

“But my name is not Smith,” said the young man.

“Generically it is,” replied the Duke. “You are Smith to all intents and purposes. That, indeed, is why I address you. In making your acquaintance, I make a thousand acquaintances. You are a shortcut to knowledge. Tell me, do you seriously think of drowning yourself this afternoon?”

“Rather,” said the undergraduate.

“A meiosis in common use, equivalent to ‘Yes, assuredly,’ ” murmured the Duke. “And why,” he then asked, “do you mean to do this?”

“Why? How can you ask? Why are you going to do it?”

“The Socratic manner is not a game at which two can play. Please answer my question, to the best of your ability.”

“Well, because I can’t live without her. Because I want to prove my love for her. Because⁠—”

“One reason at a time please,” said the Duke, holding up his hand. “You can’t live without her? Then I am to assume that you look forward to dying?”

“Rather.”

“You are truly happy in that prospect?”

“Yes. Rather.”

“Now, suppose I showed you two pieces of equally fine amber⁠—a big one and a little one. Which of these would you rather possess?”

“The big one, I suppose.”

“And this because it is better to have more than to have less of a good thing?”

“Just so.”

“Do you consider happiness a good thing or a bad one?”

“A good one.”

“So that a man would rather have more than less of happiness?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then does it not seem to you that you would do well to postpone your suicide indefinitely?”

“But I have just said I can’t live without her.”

“You have still more recently declared yourself truly happy.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Now, be careful, Mr. Smith. Remember, this is a matter of life and death. Try to do yourself justice. I have asked you⁠—”

But the undergraduate was walking away, not without a certain dignity.

The Duke felt that he had not handled his man skilfully. He remembered that even