Zuleika Dobson, Max Beerbohm [e ink ebook reader TXT] 📗

“You don’t believe in the love that corrodes, the love that ruins?”

“No,” laughed Zuleika.

“You have never dipped into the Greek pastoral poets, nor sampled the Elizabethan sonneteers?”

“No, never. You will think me lamentably crude: my experience of life has been drawn from life itself.”

“Yet often you talk as though you had read rather much. Your way of speech has what is called ‘the literary flavour.’ ”

“Ah, that is an unfortunate trick which I caught from a writer, a Mr. Beerbohm, who once sat next to me at dinner somewhere. I can’t break myself of it. I assure you I hardly ever open a book. Of life, though, my experience has been very wide. Brief? But I suppose the soul of man during the past two or three years has been much as it was in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and of⁠—whoever it was that reigned over the Greek pastures. And I daresay the modern poets are making the same old silly distortions. But forgive me,” she added gently, “perhaps you yourself are a poet?”

“Only since yesterday,” answered the Duke (not less unfairly to himself than to Roger Newdigate and Thomas Gaisford). And he felt he was especially a dramatic poet. All the while that she had been sitting by him here, talking so glibly, looking so straight into his eyes, flashing at him so many pretty gestures, it was the sense of tragic irony that prevailed in him⁠—that sense which had stirred in him, and been repressed, on the way from Judas. He knew that she was making her effect consciously for the other young men by whom the roof of the barge was now thronged. Him alone she seemed to observe. By her manner, she might have seemed to be making love to him. He envied the men she was so deliberately making envious⁠—the men whom, in her undertone to him, she was really addressing. But he did take comfort in the irony. Though she used him as a stalking-horse, he, after all, was playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. While she chattered on, without an inkling that he was no ordinary lover, and coaxing him to present two quite ordinary young men to her, he held over her the revelation that he for love of her was about to die.

And, while he drank in the radiance of her beauty, he heard her chattering on. “So you see,” she was saying, “it couldn’t do those young men any harm. Suppose unrequited love is anguish: isn’t the discipline wholesome? Suppose I am a sort of furnace: shan’t I purge, refine, temper? Those two boys are but scorched from here. That is horrid; and what good will it do them?” She laid a hand on his arm. “Cast them into the furnace for their own sake, dear Duke! Or cast one of them, or,” she added, glancing round at the throng, “any one of these others!”

“For their own sake?” he echoed, withdrawing his arm. “If you were not, as the whole world knows you to be, perfectly respectable, there might be something in what you say. But as it is, you can but be an engine for mischief; and your sophistries leave me unmoved. I shall certainly keep you to myself.”

“I hate you,” said Zuleika, with an ugly petulance that crowned the irony.

“So long as I live,” uttered the Duke, in a level voice, “you will address no man but me.”

“If your prophecy is to be fulfilled,” laughed Zuleika, rising from her chair, “your last moment is at hand.”

“It is,” he answered, rising too.

“What do you mean?” she asked, awed by something in his tone.

“I mean what I say: that my last moment is at hand.” He withdrew his eyes from hers, and, leaning his elbows on the balustrade, gazed thoughtfully at the river. “When I am dead,” he added, over his shoulder, “you will find these fellows rather coy of your advances.”

For the first time since his avowal of his love for her, Zuleika found herself genuinely interested in him. A suspicion of his meaning had flashed through her soul.⁠—But no! surely he could not mean that! It must have been a metaphor merely. And yet, something in his eyes⁠ ⁠… She leaned beside him. Her shoulder touched his. She gazed questioningly at him. He did not turn his face to her. He gazed at the sunlit river.

The Judas Eight had just embarked for their voyage to the starting-point. Standing on the edge of the raft that makes a floating platform for the barge, William, the hoary bargee, was pushing them off with his boat-hook, wishing them luck with deferential familiarity. The raft was thronged with Old Judasians⁠—mostly clergymen⁠—who were shouting hearty hortations, and evidently trying not to appear so old as they felt⁠—or rather, not to appear so startlingly old as their contemporaries looked to them. It occurred to the Duke as a strange thing, and a thing to be glad of, that he, in this world, would never be an Old Judasian. Zuleika’s shoulder pressed his. He thrilled not at all. To all intents, he was dead already.

The enormous eight young men in the threadlike skiff⁠—the skiff that would scarce have seemed an adequate vehicle for the tiny cox who sat facing them⁠—were staring up at Zuleika with that uniformity of impulse which, in another direction, had enabled them to bump a boat on two of the previous “nights.” If tonight they bumped the next boat, Univ., then would Judas be three places “up” on the river; and tomorrow Judas would have a Bump Supper. Furthermore, if Univ. were bumped tonight, Magdalen might be bumped tomorrow. Then would Judas, for the first time in history, be head of the river. Oh tremulous hope! Yet, for the moment, these eight young men seemed to have forgotten the awful responsibility that rested on their over-developed shoulders. Their hearts, already strained by rowing, had been transfixed this afternoon by Eros’ darts. All of them had seen Zuleika as she