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THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
A FAIRY TALE FOR TIRED MEN
BY MAX BEERBOHM
JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD.
_Published Sq. 16mo April 1897_ _Reprinted December 1897_ _Reprinted February 1904_ _Reprinted May 1908_ _Reprinted May 1913_ _Cr. 4to Illus. Edition October 1918_ _Cr. 8vo Edition December 1919_ _Reprinted February 1922_ _Reprinted August 1924_ _Reprinted July 1928_
_Made and Printed in Great Britain_ _by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_
The Happy Hypocrite
I
None, it is said, of all who revelled with the Regent, was half sowicked as Lord George Hell. I will not trouble my little readers with along recital of his great naughtiness. But it were well they should knowthat he was greedy, destructive, and disobedient. I am afraid there isno doubt that he often sat up at Carlton House until long after bedtime,playing at games, and that he generally ate and drank far more than wasgood for him. His fondness for fine clothes was such that he used todress on week-days quite as gorgeously as good people dress on Sundays.He was thirty-five years old and a great grief to his parents.
And the worst of it was that he set such a bad example to others. Never,never did he try to conceal his wrong-doing; so that, in time, everyone knew how horrid he was. In fact, I think he was proud of beinghorrid. Captain Tarleton, in his account of _Contemporary Bucks_,suggested that his Lordship's great Candour was a virtue and shouldincline us to forgive some of his abominable faults. But, painful as itis to me to dissent from any opinion expressed by one who is now dead, Ihold that Candour is good only when it reveals good actions or goodsentiments, and that when it reveals evil, itself is evil, even also.
Lord George Hell did, at last, atone for all his faults, in a way thatwas never revealed to the world during his life-time. The reason of hisstrange and sudden disappearance from that social sphere in which he hadso long moved, and never moved again, I will unfold. My little readerswill then, I think, acknowledge that any angry judgment they may havepassed upon him must be reconsidered and, maybe, withdrawn. I will leavehis Lordship in their hands. But my plea for him will not be based uponthat Candour of his, which some of his friends so much admired. Therewere, yes! some so weak and so wayward as to think it a fine thing tohave an historic title and no scruples. "Here comes George Hell," theywould say. "How wicked my Lord is looking!" _Noblesse oblige_, you see,and so an aristocrat should be very careful of his good name. Anonymousnaughtiness does little harm.
It is pleasant to record that many persons were inobnoxious to the magicof his title and disapproved of him so strongly that, whenever heentered a room where they happened to be, they would make straight forthe door and watch him very severely through the key-hole. Everymorning, when he strolled up Piccadilly, they crossed over to the otherside in a compact body, leaving him to the companionship of his badcompanions on that which is still called the "shady" side. LordGeorge--[Greek: schetlios]--was quite indifferent to this demonstration.Indeed, he seemed wholly hardened, and when ladies gathered up theirskirts as they passed him, he would lightly appraise their ankles.
I am glad I never saw his Lordship. They say he was rather likeCaligula, with a dash of Sir John Falstaff, and that sometimes on wintrymornings in St. James's Street young children would hush their prattleand cling in disconsolate terror to their nurses' skirts, as they sawhim come (that vast and fearful gentleman!) with the east wind rufflingthe rotund surface of his beaver, ruffling the fur about his neck andwrists, and striking the purple complexion of his cheeks to a stilldeeper purple. "King Bogey" they called him in the nurseries. In thehours when they too were naughty, their nurses would predict his adventdown the chimney or from the linen-press, and then they always"behaved." So that, you see, even the unrighteous are a power for good,in the hands of nurses.
It is true that his Lordship was a non-smoker--a negative virtue,certainly, and due, even that, I fear, to the fashion of the day--butthere the list of his good qualities comes to an abrupt conclusion. Heloved with an insatiable love the town and the pleasures of the town,whilst the ennobling influences of our English lakes were quite unknownto him. He used to boast that he had not seen a buttercup for twentyyears, and once he called the country "a Fool's Paradise." London wasthe only place marked on the map of his mind. London gave him all hewished for. Is it not extraordinary to think that he had never spent ahappy day nor a day of any kind in Follard Chase, that desirable mansionin Herts, which he had won from Sir Follard Follard, by a chuck of thedice, at Boodle's, on his seventeenth birthday? Always cynical andunkind, he had refused to give the broken baronet his "revenge." Alwaysunkind and insolent, he had offered to instal him in the lodge--an offerwhich was, after a little hesitation, accepted. "On my soul, the man'splace is a sinecure," Lord George would say; "he never has to open thegate to me."[1] So rust has covered the great iron gates of FollardChase, and moss had covered its paths. The deer browsed upon itsterraces. There were only wild flowers anywhere. Deep down among theweeds and water-lilies of the little stone-rimmed pond he had lookeddown upon, lay the marble faun, as he had fallen.
[Footnote 1: _Lord Coleraine's Correspondence_, page 101.]
Of all the sins of his Lordship's life surely not one was more wantonthan his neglect of Follard Chase. Some whispered (nor did he evertrouble to deny) that he had won it by foul means, by loaded dice.Indeed no card-player in St. James's cheated more persistently than he.As he was rich and had no wife and family to support, and as his luckwas always capital, I can offer no excuse for his conduct. At CarltonHouse, in the presence of many bishops and cabinet ministers, he oncedunned the Regent most arrogantly for 5000 guineas out of which he hadcheated him some months before, and went so far as to declare that hewould not leave the house till he got it; whereupon His Royal Highness,with that unfailing tact for which he was ever famous, invited him tostay there as a guest; which, in fact, Lord George did, for severalmonths. After this, we can hardly be surprised when we read that he"seldom sat down to the fashionable game of Limbo with less than four,and sometimes with _as many as seven_ aces up his sleeve."[2] We canonly wonder that he was tolerated at all.
[Footnote 2: _Contemporary Bucks_, vol. i, page 73.]
At Garble's, that nightly resort of titled rips and roysterers, heusually spent the early hours of his evenings. Round the illuminatedgarden, with La Gambogi, the dancer, on his arm, and a Bacchic retinueat his heels, he would amble leisurely, clad in Georgian costume, whichwas not then, of course, fancy dress, as it is now.[3] Now and again,in the midst of his noisy talk, he would crack a joke of the period, orbreak into a sentimental ballad, dance a little, or pick a quarrel. Whenhe tired of such fooling, he would proceed to his box in the tiny _alfresco_ theatre and patronize the jugglers, pugilists, play-actors andwhatever eccentric persons happened to be performing there.
[Footnote 3: It would seem, however, that, on special occasions, hisLordship indulged in odd costumes. "I have seen him," says CaptainTarleton (vol. i, p. 69), "attired as a French clown, as a sailor, or inthe crimson hose of a Sicilian grandee--_peu beau spectacle_. He neverdisguised his face, whatever his costume, however."]
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The stars were splendid and the moon as beautiful as a great camelia,one night in May, as his Lordship laid his arms upon the cushioned ledgeof his box and watched the antics of the Merry Dwarf, a little,curly-headed creature, whose _debut_ it was. Certainly Garble had founda novelty. Lord George led the applause, and the Dwarf finished hisfrisking with a pretty song about lovers. Nor was this all. Feats ofarchery were to follow. In a moment the Dwarf reappeared with a small,gilded bow in his hand and a quiverful of arrows slung at his shoulder.Hither and thither he shot these vibrant arrows, very precisely, severalinto the bark of the acacias that grew about the overt stage, severalinto the fluted columns of the boxes, two or three to the stars. Theaudience was delighted. "_Bravo! Bravo Sagittaro!_" murmured LordGeorge, in the language of La Gambogi, who was at his side. Finally, thewaxen figure of a man was carried on by an assistant and propped againstthe trunk of a tree. A scarf was tied across the eyes of the MerryDwarf, who stood in a remote corner of the stage. _Bravo_ indeed! Forthe shaft had pierced the waxen figure through the heart, or just wherethe heart would have been if the figure had been human and not waxen.
Lord George called for port and champagne and beckoned the bowinghomuncule to his box, that he might compliment him on his skill andpledge him in a bumper of the grape.
"On my soul, you have a genius for the bow," his Lordship cried withflorid condescension. "Come and sit by me; but first let me present youto my divine companion the Signora Gambogi--Virgo and Sagittarius, egad!You may have met on the Zodiac."
"Indeed, I met the Signora many years ago," the Dwarf replied, with alow bow. "But not on the Zodiac, and the Signora perhaps forgets me."
At this speech the Signora flushed angrily, for she was indeed no longeryoung, and the Dwarf had a childish face. She thought he mocked her; hereyes flashed. Lord George's twinkled rather maliciously.
"Great is the experience of youth," he laughed. "Pray, are you strickenwith more than twenty summers?"
"With more than I can count," said the Dwarf. "To the health of yourLordship!" and he drained his long glass of wine. Lord Georgereplenished it, and asked by what means or miracle he had acquired hismastery of the bow.
"By long practice," the little thing rejoined; "long practice on humancreatures." And he nodded his curls mysteriously.
"On my heart, you are a dangerous box-mate."
"Your Lordship were certainly a good target."
Little liking this joke at his bulk, which really rivalled the Regent's,Lord George turned brusquely in his chair and fixed his eyes upon thestage. This time it was the Gambogi who laughed.
A new operette, _The Fair Captive of Samarcand_, was being enacted, andthe frequenters of Garble's were all curious to behold the _debutante_,Jenny Mere, who was said to be both pretty and talented. Thesepredictions were surely fulfilled, when the captive peeped from thewindow of her wooden turret. She looked so pale under her blue turban.Her eyes were dark with fear; her parted lips did not seem capable ofspeech. "Is it that she is frightened of us?" the audience wondered. "Orof the flashing scimitar of Aphoschaz, the cruel father who holds hercaptive?" So they gave her loud applause, and when at length she jumpeddown, to be caught in the arms of her gallant lover, Nissarah, and,throwing aside her Eastern draperies, did a simple dance in theconvention of Columbine, their delight was quite unbounded. She was veryyoung and did not dance very well, it is true, but they forgave herthat. And when she turned in the dance and saw her father with hisscimitar, their hearts beat swiftly for her. Nor were all eyes tearlesswhen she pleaded with him for her life.
Strangely absorbed, quite callous of his two companions, Lord Georgegazed over the footlights. He seemed as one who is in a trance. Of asudden, something shot sharp into his heart. In pain he sprang to hisfeet and, as he turned, he seemed to see a winged and laughing child, inwhose hand was a bow, fly swiftly away into the darkness. At his side,was the Dwarf's chair. It was empty. Only La Gambogi was with him, andher dark face was like the face of a fury.
Presently he sank back into his chair, holding one hand to his heart,that still throbbed from the strange transfixion. He breathed verypainfully and seemed scarce conscious of his surroundings. But LaGambogi knew he would pay no more homage to her now, for that the loveof Jenny Mere had come into his heart.
When the operette was over, his lovesick Lordship snatched up his cloakand went away without one word to the lady at his side. Rudely hebrushed aside Count Karoloff and Mr. FitzClarence, with whom he hadarranged to play hazard. Of his comrades, his cynicism, his recklessscorn--of all the material of his existence--he was oblivious now. Hehad no time for penitence or diffident delay. He only knew that he mustkneel at the feet of Jenny Mere and ask her to be his wife.
"Miss Mere," said Garble, "is in her room, resuming her ordinary attire.If your Lordship deign to await the conclusion of her humble toilet, itshall be my privilege to present her to your Lordship. Even now,indeed, I hear her footfall on the stair."
Lord George uncovered his head and with one hand nervously smoothed hisrebellious wig.
"Miss Mere, come hither," said Garble. "This is my Lord George Hell,that you have pleased whom by your poor efforts this night will ever bethe prime gratification of your passage through the roseate realms ofart."
Little Miss Mere, who had never seen a lord, except in fancy or indreams, curtseyed shyly and hung her head. With a loud crash, LordGeorge fell on his knees. The manager was greatly surprised, the girlgreatly embarrassed. Yet neither of them laughed, for sinceritydignified his posture and sent eloquence from its lips.
"Miss Mere," he cried, "give ear, I pray you, to my poor words, norspurn me in misprision from the pedestal of your Beauty, Genius, andVirtue. All too conscious, alas! of my presumption in the same, I yetabase myself before you as a suitor for your adorable Hand. I gropeunder the shadow of your raven Locks. I am dazzled in the light of thosetranslucent Orbs, your Eyes. In the intolerable Whirlwind of your Fame Ifaint and am afraid."
"Sir----" the girl began, simply.
"Say 'My Lord,'" said Garble, solemnly.
"My Lord, I thank you for your words. They are beautiful. But indeed,indeed, I can never be your bride."
Lord George hid his face in his hands.
"Child," said Mr. Garble, "let not the sun rise ere you have retractedthose wicked words."
"My wealth, my rank, my irremeable love for you, I throw them at yourfeet," Lord George cried piteously. "I would wait an hour, a week, alustre, even a decade, did you but bid me hope!"
"I can never be your wife," she said, slowly. "I can never be the wifeof any man whose face is not saintly. Your face, my Lord, mirrors, itmay be, true love for me, but it is even as a mirror long tarnished bythe reflexion of this world's vanity. It is even as a tarnished mirror.Do not kneel to me, for I am poor and humble. I was not made for suchimpetuous wooing. Kneel, if you please, to some greater, gayer lady. Asfor my love, it is my own, nor can it be ever torn from me, but given,as true love must needs be given, freely. Ah, rise from your knees. Thatman, whose face is wonderful as are the faces of the saints, to him Iwill give my true love."
Miss Mere, though visibly affected, had spoken this speech with agesture and elocution so superb, that Mr. Garble could not helpapplauding, deeply though he regretted her attitude towards his honouredpatron. As for Lord George, he was immobile as a stricken oak. With asweet look of pity, Miss Mere went her way, and Mr. Garble, with somesolicitude, helped his Lordship to rise from his knees. Out into thenight, without a word, his Lordship went. Above him the stars were stillsplendid. They seemed to mock the festoons of little lamps, dim now andguttering, in the garden of Garble's. What should he do? No thoughtscame; only his heart burnt hotly. He stood on the brim of Garble's lake,shallow and artificial as his past life had been. Two swans slept on itssurface. The moon shone strangely upon their white, twisted necks.Should he drown himself? There was no one in the garden to prevent him,and in the morning they would find him floating th
ere, one of thenoblest of love's victims. The garden would be closed in the evening.There would be no performance in the little theatre. It might be thatJenny Mere would mourn him. "Life is a prison, without bars," hemurmured, as he walked away.
All night long he strode, knowing not whither, through the mysteriousstreets and squares of London. The watchmen, to whom his figure wasfamiliar, gripped their staves at his approach, for they had old reasonto fear his wild and riotous habits. He did not heed them. Through thatdim conflict between darkness and day, which is ever waged silently overour sleep, Lord George strode on in the deep absorption of his love andof his despair. At dawn he found himself on the outskirts of a littlewood in Kensington. A rabbit rushed past him through the dew. Birds werefluttering in the branches. The leaves were tremulous with the presageof day, and the air was full of the sweet scent of hyacinths.
How cool the country was! It seemed to cool the feverish maladies of hissoul and consecrate his love. In the fair light of the dawn he began toshape the means of winning Jenny Mere, that he had conceived in thedesperate hours of the night. Soon an old woodman passed by, and, withrough courtesy, showed him the path that would lead him quickest to thetown. He was loth to leave the wood. With Jenny, he thought, he wouldlive always in the country. And he picked a posy of wild flowers forher.
His _rentree_ into the still silent town strengthened his Arcadianresolves. He, who had seen the town so often in its hours of sleep, hadnever noticed how sinister its whole aspect was. In its narrow streetsthe white houses rose on either side of him like cliffs of chalk. Hehurried swiftly along the unswept pavement. How had he loved this cityof evil secrets?
At last he came to St. James's Square, to the hateful door of his ownhouse. Shadows lay like memories in every corner of the dim hall.Through the window of his room, a sunbeam slanted across his smoothwhite bed, and fell ghastly on the ashen grate.
The Happy Hypocrite: A Fairy Tale for Tired Men Page 1