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Zuleika Dobson

Zuleika Dobson

3.9 8
by Max Beerbohm

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Zuleika Dobson is a highly accomplished and superbly written book whose spirit is farcical," said E. M. Forster. "It is a great work—the most consistent achievement of fantasy in our time . . .
so funny and charming, so iridescent yet so profound."
Originally published in 1911, Max Beerbohm's sparklingly wicked satire concerns the unlikely


Zuleika Dobson is a highly accomplished and superbly written book whose spirit is farcical," said E. M. Forster. "It is a great work—the most consistent achievement of fantasy in our time . . .
so funny and charming, so iridescent yet so profound."
Originally published in 1911, Max Beerbohm's sparklingly wicked satire concerns the unlikely events that occur when a femme fatale briefly enters the supremely privileged, all-male domain of Judas Col-
lege, Oxford. A conjurer by profession, Zuleika Dobson can only love a man who is impervious to her considerable charms: a circumstance that proves fatal, as any number of love-smitten suitors are driven to suicide by the damsel's rejection. Laced with memorable one-liners ("Death cancels all engagements," utters the first casualty) and inspired throughout by Beerbohm's rococo imagination, this lyrical evocation of Edwardian undergraduate life at Oxford has, according to Forster, "a beauty unattainable by serious literature."
"I read Zuleika Dobson with pleasure," recalled Bertrand Russell. "It represents the Oxford that the two World Wars have destroyed with a charm that is not likely to be reproduced anywhere in the world for the next thousand years."

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Standard Publications, Incorporated
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7.50(w) x 9.25(h) x 0.43(d)

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That old bell, presage of a train, had just sounded through Oxford station; and the undergraduates who were waiting there, gay figures in tweed or flannel, moved to the margin of the platform and gazed idly up the line. Young and careless, in the glow of the afternoon sunshine, they struck a sharp note of incongruity with the worn boards they stood on, with the fading signals and grey eternal walls of that antique station, which, familiar to them and insignificant, does yet whisper to the tourist the last enchantments of the Middle Age.

At the door of the first-class waiting-room, aloof and venerable, stood the Warden of Judas. An ebon pillar of tradition seemed he, in his garb of old-fashioned cleric. Aloft, between the wide brim of his silk hat and the white extent of his shirt-front, appeared those eyes which hawks, that nose which eagles, had often envied. He supported his years on an ebon stick. He alone was worthy of the background.

Came a whistle from the distance. The breast of an engine was descried, and a long train curving after it, under a flight of smoke. It grew and grew. Louder and louder, its noise foreran it. It became a furious, enormous monster, and, with an instinct for safety, all men receded from the platform's margin. (Yet came there with it, unknown to them, a danger far more terrible than itself.) Into the station it came blustering, with cloud and clangour. Ere it had yet stopped, the door of one carriage flew open, and from it, in a white travelling dress, in a toque a-twinkle with fine diamonds, a lithe and radiant creature slipped nimbly down to the platform.

A cynosure indeed! A hundred eyes were fixed on her, and half as many heartslost to her. The Warden of Judas himself had mounted on his nose a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Him espying, the nymph darted in his direction. The throng made way for her. She was at his side.

'Grandpapa!' she cried, and kissed the old man on either cheek. (Not a youth there but would have bartered fifty years of his future for that salute.)

'My dear Zuleika,' he said, 'welcome to Oxford! Have you no luggage?'

'Heaps!' she answered. 'And a maid who will find it.'

'Then,' said the Warden, 'let us drive straight to College.' He offered her his arm, and they proceeded slowly to the entrance. She chatted gaily, blushing not in the long avenue of eyes she passed through. All the youths, under her spell, were now quite oblivious of the relatives they had come to meet. Parents, sisters, cousins, ran unclaimed about the platform. Undutiful, all the youths were forming a serried suite to their enchantress. In silence they followed her. They saw her leap into the Warden's landau, they saw the Warden seat himself upon her left. Nor was it until the landau was lost to sight that they turned--how slowly, and with how bad a grace!--to look for their relatives.

Through those slums which connect Oxford with the world, the landau rolled on towards Judas. Not many youths occurred, for nearly all--it was the Monday of Eights Week--were down by the river, cheering the crews. There did, however, come spurring by, on a polo-pony, a very splendid youth. His straw hat was encircled with a riband of blue and white, and he raised it to the Warden.

'That,' said the Warden, 'is the Duke of Dorset, a member of my College. He dines at my table to-night.'

Zuleika, turning to regard his Grace, saw that he had not reined in and was not even glancing back at her over his shoulder. She gave a little start of dismay, but scarcely had her lips pouted ere they curved to a smile--a smile with no malice in its corners.

As the landau rolled into 'the Corn,' another youth--a pedestrian, and very different---saluted the Warden. He wore a black jacket, rusty and amorphous. His trousers were too short, and he himself was too short: almost a dwarf. His face was as plain as his gait was undistinguished. He squinted behind spectacles.

'And who is that?' asked Zuleika.

A deep flush overspread the cheek of the Warden. 'That,' he said, 'is also a member of Judas. His name, I believe, is Noaks.'

'Is he dining with us to-night?' asked Zuleika.

'Certainly not,' said the Warden. 'Most decidedly not.'

Noaks, unlike the Duke, had stopped for an ardent retrospect. He gazed till the landau was out of his short sight; then, sighing, resumed his solitary walk.

The landau was rolling into 'the Broad,' over that ground which had once blackened under the fagots lit for Latimer and Ridley. It rolled past the portals of Balliol and of Trinity, past the Ashmolean. From those pedestals which intersperse the railing of the Sheldonian, the high grim busts of the Roman Emperors stared down at the fair stranger in the equipage. Zuleika returned their stare with but a casual glance. The inanimate had little charm for her.

A moment later, a certain old don emerged from Blackwell's, where he had been buying books. Looking across the road, he saw, to his amazement, great beads of perspiration glistening on the brows of those Emperors. He trembled, and hurried away. That evening, in Common Room, he told what he had seen; and no amount of polite scepticism would convince him that it was but the hallucination of one who had been reading too much Mommsen. He persisted that he had seen what he described. It was not until two days had elapsed that some credence was accorded him.

Yes, as the landau rolled by, sweat started from the brows of the Emperors. They, at least, foresaw the peril that was overhanging Oxford, and they gave such warning as they could. Let that be remembered to their credit. Let that incline us to think more gently of them. In their lives we know, they were infamous, some of them--'nihil non commiserunt stupri, saevitiae, impietatis.' But are they too little punished, after all? Here in Oxford, exposed eternally and inexorably to heat and frost, to the four winds that lash them and the rains that wear them away, they are expiating, in effigy, the abominations of their pride and cruelty and lust. Who were lechers, they are without bodies; who were tyrants, they are crowned never but with crowns of snow; who made themselves even with the gods, they are by American visitors frequently mistaken for the Twelve Apostles. It is but a little way down the road that the two Bishops perished for their faith, and even now we do never pass the spot without a tear for them. Yet how quickly they died in the flames! To these Emperors, for whom none weeps, time will give no surcease. Surely, it is sign of some grace in them that they rejoiced not, this bright afternoon, in the evil that was to befall the city of their penance.

What People are Saying About This

E.M. Forster
Zuleika Dobson is a highly accomplished and superbly written book whose spirit is farcical. . . . It is a great work -- the most consistent achievement of fantasy in our time. . . so funny and charming, so iridescent yet so profound.
Bertrand Russell
I read Zuleika Dobson with pleasure. . . . It represents the Oxford that the two World Wars have destroyed with a charm that is not likely to be reproduced anywhere in the world for the next thousand years.

Meet the Author

Sir Henry Maximilian "Max" Beerbohm (August 24, 1872 - May 20, 1956) was an English essayist, parodist and caricaturist best known today for his 1911 novel Zuleika Dobson. Beerbohm's best known works include A Christmas Garland (1912), a parody of literary styles, Seven Men (1919), which includes "Enoch Soames", the tale of a poet who makes a deal with the Devil to find out how posterity will remember him, and Zuleika Dobson (1911), his only novel.

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Zuleika Dobson 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The book was outstanding. A love smitten man falls deeply in love with a vain and egotistical woman. But love is not discried for these two - death is inherent. Supremely on the up-and-up, Mr. Beerbohm was 'the jewel in the treasure chest of exerience . . .'
LynnLD More than 1 year ago
Zuleika Dobson is a captivating beauty who visits Oxford University to see her grandfather, who works there. The men of the undergraduate class fall for her and vow that they will die for her. Even the young Duke is caught up in the frenzy. After some hesitation, they all drown themselves to pledge their love for the beautiful, cold-hearted Zuleika. But in the end, she is haunted by their ghosts and wonders if they really did it for her. She is a woman who could never be satisfied and she simply moves on to Cambridge.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I¿m not ready to line up with the undergrads of Oxford to plunge into the depths of the Isis for love of her, but I can¿t deny that I¿m as fascinated as they by the conjuring Ms. Dobson. Max Beerbohm¿s delightfully sardonic ¿Zuleika Dobson,¿ the tale of a young magician¿s impact on the gowns of Oxford, was brought to my attention at a ¿Bad Girls of Literature¿ symposium in which I participated. As the instigator of the mass suicide of Oxford¿s youth, Zuleika qualifies as one of the bad girls¿but she is easily forgiven as her charm and beauty enraptures readers across the ocean and throughout time. Beerbohm¿s wit has never been sharper than in this novel. And, those who have visited the great University city will smile at Beerbohm¿s descriptions of it, knowing that little has changed since he wrote ¿Zuleika Dobson.¿ Beerbohm¿s novel is great fun, an enjoyable read for those who enjoy wit and droll prose.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I must take to task my predecessor, who challenges the worthiness of this book's placement among the best of the century, according to Modern Library. Not only does it belong on the list (unlike others, such as Darkness at Noon, which wasn't even originally published in English and was therefore inelligible by their own rules: ooops), but it should have been placed higher. Perhaps number # 8, the spot currently occupied by Darkness. This is a book that can be appreciated by anyone who has ever loved without feeling that love returned. It is a comedy, with little or no truth other than the emotions held within, shared, by both the book and the reader. This is not a book that is meant to be taken seriously, but the emotions it provokes and the thoughts it engenders ARE to be taken seriously. This is a great work of literature, a wonderfully heartbreaking story, and tremendously funny.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I picked up this book because it was on Modern Library's 100 best novels of the century. It is by far the worst of the 25 to 30 novles I have read from the list. Beerbohm a self-indulgent writer who writes a painfully boring book to read. The book could overcome its boring pace if Beerbohm knew how to write a book. Instead, Beerbohm, a master of one-liners, simply tries to compose as many of these as possible without regard for whether the whole of his work flows. If you want to read as many books on the Modern Library list of 100 hundred skip over this one until you absolutely have to read it.