[Illustration: coverpage]
THE HYPOCRITE
A FEW
EARLY PRESS OPINIONS
OF
THE HYPOCRITE
_MORNING POST_:--"It is entitled to be regarded as one of the
clever books of the day."
_MORNING LEADER_:--"A brilliant book.... Evidently the work of a
young, powerful, and subtle brain."
_WORLD_:--"The anonymous author is evidently young and clever. He
paints with a firm, bold hand. The characters are life-like, and
in many cases drawn from the life. The book will be found
interesting and entertaining."
_LONDON MORNING_:--"A remarkable book.... Clever the book
undoubtedly is. Its brutally frank analysis of the temperament of
a man with brain and mind hopelessly diseased lifts the author out
of the common rut of novelists, and stamps him as a writer of
power."
_LLOYD'S_:--"The book sparkles with epigrammatic sayings and
satirical allusions. The characters are all vividly drawn, some of
them being undoubted and recognisable caricatures. The writing is
that of a clever pessimist, with a vein of sardonic humour that
keeps the reader amused. The author may wear a green carnation,
but whether he does or not, it is the work of a skilful pen."
THE HYPOCRITE
LONDON
GREENING & CO.
1898
(_All rights reserved_)
SECOND IMPRESSION
_First Edition_ _November, 1898_
_Reprinted_ _December, 1898_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. PAGE
YARDLY GOBION OPENS HIS LETTERS 1
CHAPTER II.
SCOTT IS LONELY 18
CHAPTER III.
INITIATION 39
CHAPTER IV.
THE CAMPAIGN 62
CHAPTER V.
A PSYCHOLOGICAL MOMENT 83
CHAPTER VI.
THE COUP 103
CHAPTER VII.
THE CONSOLATIONS OF MRS. EBBAGE; WITH SOME
ACCOUNT OF THE REV. PETER BELPER 129
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FINAL POSE 147
CHAPTER IX.
TWENTY YEARS AFTER 157
THE HYPOCRITE
CHAPTER I.
_YARDLY GOBION OPENS HIS LETTERS._
"I am thinking of writing my impressions, binding them in red leather,
with a _fleur-de-lys_ stamped in the corner, and distributing them among
my friends," said the youth with the large tie.
"My good fool," said the President of the Union, who sat by the fire,
"you must remember that most of us know you are a humbug."
"Quite so, but I'm not going to do it for the journalistic set. Don't
you know that, owing to my youthful appearance and earnest eyes, I have
an admiring circle of people who worship me as their god--good, healthy,
red people, who like moonlight in the quad, and read leading articles?
It is very amusing. I wear a great mass of hair, and look at them with
far-away eyes instinct with intellectual pain; and sometimes when we get
very solemn, the tears rise slowly, and I talk in clear tones of effort,
of will--the toil, the struggle, the Glorious Reward! They absolutely
love me, and I live on them, borrow their allowances, drink their
whiskey--in short, rook them largely all round."
"It is a good thing," said a Merton man, whom they called the Prophet,
"that you have an ark of refuge, where there is no necessity to pose,
and where you can freely behave like the scoundrel you are;
soul-scraping with earnest freshmen is doubtless profitable, but I
should say it was wearing."
"That's the worst of it. I have to disguise the fact that I know you
people, and write for _The Dead Bird_; it is horribly difficult. I find,
though, that when I am just a little drunk I do it much better. One can
look more _spirituel_, and play the game better all round. Unfortunately
the entrances and exits require management. When one is leaning back in
a padded armchair, it is easy to appear sober; but coming into a big
room full of men, and picking one's way through them to get to the
aforesaid chair, is very perilous work."
"'Where there's a swill there's a sway,' I suppose," said the Prophet.
"Exactly," said the youth, with a yawn; "you are becoming singularly apt
at a certain sort of machine-made epigram. I will have a short
drink--quite short. Yes, please--Scotch----" He splashed some soda-water
into his tumbler from a syphon on the table, drank it off at a gulp, and
got up.
"I really must go now; I am to speak third at the Wadham debate, so I
mustn't be late."
He got his hat--a soft felt one--and arranging his tie in the glass over
the mantelpiece, went out with a smile. The rooms belonged to the
President of the Union, who was living out of college. They were rooms
arranged with an eye to effect; the owner posed in his furniture as well
as in his person, though there was no particular evidence of luxury or
straining after cheap æstheticism.
A few armchairs, a sideboard covered with bottles, and two large
bookshelves full of paper-backed novels of Heller and Maupassant, with
a few portly historical treatises of the Taswell-Langmead type, were the
most prominent objects.
It was evident, however, that a central idea influenced the arrangement.
Sturtevant wrote little decadent studies for any London paper that would
take them. He had scattered notes from literary people about the
mantelpiece. The table was covered with proof-slips, magazines, and
empty glasses, while his latest piece of work, a thin book bound in
brown paper, called _The Harmonies of Sin_, lay in a conspicuous place
on the window-seat.
When Yardly Gobion, the youth who had been speaking, had gone,
Sturtevant and the Prophet, whose real name was Condamine, drew up their
chairs to the fire, lighting fresh cigarettes. They had been drinking
all day, and were by this time in the stage that knows no reticence. It
is the stage immediately preceding a pious fervour and resolve to start
a new life.
Both of them were men of mark in the University.
Sturtevant had come up to Oxford with a brilliant scholarship from a
public school which was growing in reputation every year, the
Head-master being a high churchman who made a scientific study of
advertising his own personality in the weekly press as an earnest
ascetic, but who in reality was merely a Sybarite masquerading as a
monk. Sturtevant was the show boy of Hailton, and soon made himself felt
in his year at Oxford.
He spoke well and brilliantly at the Union and various college debating
societies. He affected an utter disregard for morals, pretending so
vigorously that Irish whiskey was entirely necessary to salvation that
he soon came to believe in his own pose, and to find a day impossible
without frequent "short drinks."
Though his eyesight was excellent he carried a single eyeglass, and on
alternate days wore a hunting stock or a Liberty yellow silk tie.
The extraordinary thing about the man was that he was not merely a
poseur; he really had remarkable cleverness, and despite his life he
had done excellently well in the Schools and Union. In this his last
term he was at the head of things literary, and of the "Modern" school
at Oxford.
Condamine was a different type of man. He had done nothing very much but
talk, but had a great influence with the cleverest set. He was tall,
with a white, clean-shaven face, and an oracular way of holding forth
which had earned him the name of Prophet. He lived as if life were a
painful duty which he must perform, but very much against his
inclination.
He was a very high churchman, who on Sunday mornings might often be seen
walking up the aisle of St. Barnabas carrying a richly-illuminated
mass-book. "Sunday," he would say, "should be a day of rest." He defined
himself as a psychological hedonist.
"Young Gobion is a very clever blackguard," said the Prophet.
"Yes, he is," said Sturtevant; "he looks so young and innocent, and he
talks well."
"Is he a pure adventurer?"
"No, I don't quite think that; he comes of a good family, but they
won't have anything to do with him, and for the last term or two he has
been living on his wits. He's nearly done now, though. I should think
he'd drop out after this term."
"I never knew how far to believe the man. I suppose he does write a good
deal?"
"Yes, that's quite true. I've seen his things in _The Book Review_ and
in _The Pilgrim_. I imagine too he makes a good deal out of the Church
party."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Why, he acts a fit of remorse and horror at the life he is leading,
goes to Father Gray to confession, and then borrows ten pounds to start
a new life."
Sturtevant laughed an evil little snigger and poured out some more
whiskey.
They had blown out the lamp as the oil was low, and the room was only
lighted by the dull glow of the dying fire. The air was heavy with
cigarette smoke and the smell of spirits, and both men felt bored and
sleepy.
Condamine was afraid a fit of depression was approaching, so he raised
himself in his chair, and began to drive away his thoughts by telling
Sturtevant risky stories.
They were far too clever to really care much for cheap nastiness, but
both felt it a relief from the state of nervous tension that a long
day's continuous drinking had induced.
"One touch of indecency makes the whole world grin, to paraphrase the
immortal bard," he said, and they both laughed and sighed.
Suddenly a man in the rooms above who had a piano began to play the
Venusberg music from _Tannhäuser_ very quietly.
Almost simultaneously with the beginning of the music the moon, like a
piece of carved silver floating through the winter sky, attended by a
little drift of fluffy amber and sulphur-coloured clouds, swung round
from behind New College tower, sending a broad band of green light
across the room.
Sturtevant's white face was thrown into sharp relief against the shadow.
Condamine sat quite still, shivering a little. He felt cold. The strange
music tinkled on, like the overture to some strange experience,
sounding almost unearthly to those two unhappy souls in the room below.
Sturtevant's face twitched. His nerves were all wrong, and he was
subject to small facial contortions.
The moon moved farther away from the tower, and, peeping over a
gargoyle, shone still more directly into the room. On the wall opposite
the window was a picture of the Dutch realistic school, a heavy hairless
face, fat, with a look of vacuous excitement.
Condamine stared fixedly at it.
Suddenly the music stopped, and the man above shut the piano with a bang
that jarred among the strings.
Condamine jumped up with a curse, looking as if he had been asleep. Then
he yawned, and taking his cap and gown, without speaking left the room.
It was then upon nine o'clock, and he went to the Union and fought
depression by firing off epigrams to a crowd of men in the smoking-room
with the assured air of a man of vogue.
The Wadham debate was over about eleven, and soon after the hour had
struck, Yardly Gobion left the college and strolled down the Broad in
the moonlight.
He had, as usual, made a sensation.
They had been discussing a social question, and though what knowledge of
the matter he had came as much from intuition as experience, he spoke
well and brilliantly, and now lit his cigarette with a pleasing sense of
strength and nerve running through him. The sunshine of applause seemed
to warm his impressionable brain, to make it expand with the power of
receiving and mentally recording more vivid impressions. He had a
pleasing consciousness of being very young and very interesting.
He was wonderfully quick and sympathetic in his perceptions, and he
could see that every one of the good-natured men at the debate was
thinking what a clever fellow he was.
He felt instinctively how all his carefully-studied tricks of manner and
personal eccentricities told. The big football-playing, warm-hearted
undergraduates admired him for his soft felt hat, his terra-cotta tie,
his way of arranging his hands when he sat down, and his epigrams.
They imagined that all these things were the outcroppings of a
distinctive personality, and indeed these little poses would have
deceived, and very often did, far cleverer persons than they were.
To-night he had said in his speech of a certain genial and popular
social reformer that he was a "doctrinaire with a touch of Corney Grain
grafted on to a polemic attitude," and already in the Common Room they
were chuckling over what they thought was a happy piece of impromptu
caricature.
Gobion sauntered down the Broad and Turl to the college gates, and when
he knocked in found several letters waiting for him in the lodge. He
took them up to his rooms, turned on the light (they have electric light
at Exeter), and arranged them in a row on the table. Then he turned and
looked at himself in the glass. His hand shook till he had had some
brandy, and he was several minutes moving restlessly about the room,
putting on a blazer, and placing some stray books back on the shelves,
before he sat down to read the first letter. He toyed about with it for
some minutes, afraid to open it.
Outside in the quad a wine party were shouting and singing, their voices
echoing strangely in the still winter night, their drunken shouts
seeming to be mellowed and made musical by the ancient buildings. At
last, with a quick nervous look round the room, he tore open the
envelope and began to read. Without any heading the letter began:--
"BASSINGTON VICARAGE,
"_Sunday Night._
"I have heard from Dr. Fletcher that you are suspected to be
carrying on an intrigue with a low woman in Oxford; that you have
not passed a single examination, and that you consistently fritter
away your time in speaking at debating societies, and are in the
habit of being frequently intoxicated.
"You have written me accounts of your progress and work at the
University, which, on investigation, I find to be simply a tissue
of lies.
"I have had bills for large amounts sent to me during the last few
weeks from tradesmen, saying that they find it impossible to get
any money from you, and that you ignore their communications. You
have had splendid opportunities, a good name, with abilities above
the average, and I believed that you would have done me credit.
Your deceit and cruelty have broken my heart.
"I shall do nothing further for you, and you must make your own
plans for the future.
"I shall not help you in any way.
"Your unhappy
"FATHER."
He got up and had some more brandy, walking about the room. "I knew the
old fool would find out soon. My God, though, it's rather sudden. I
haven't twopence in the world, and the High Church people are beginning
to smell a rat. Damn this collar--it's tight...." He tore it off,
smashing the head of the stud, which rolled under the fender with a
sharp metallic click. After a time he sat down again. The feeling of
ruin was already passing away, and his face lost its sweetness and
youth, while a sharp keen look took its place--the look that he wore
when at night he was alone and plotting, a haggard, old look which no
one ever saw but Condamine or Sturtevant.
He took up the next letter, a small envelope addressed in a girl's
hand:--
"WESTCOTT,
"WOOTON WOODS."
"DEAREST CARADOC,--You cannot think how delighted I was to get
your letter on Saturday. I have been thinking of you a good deal
the last two or three weeks, and wondering why you did not write.
"Had you forgotten all about me? I expect so, but there is some
excuse for you, as you must meet heaps of _pretty_ girls in
Oxford. Do write me a nice long letter soon--a _nice_ letter, you
know.
"Good-bye, dearest--
"Your _very_ loving
"GOODIE.
"P.S.--Excuse scrawl."
The hard, keen expression faded away, his eyes filling with tears, while
the light played caressingly on his face and tumbled hair.
It was his one pure affection, an attachment for a dear little girl of
seventeen, a clergyman's daughter in the country. He thought of the
evening walks in the sweet summer meadows, when the "mellow lin lan lone
of evening bells" ringing for evensong floated over the corn. He
remembered how her hair had touched his face, and how she had whispered
"dearest."
And then the thoughts of all the other women in Oxford and London
came crowding into his brain. The hot kisses, the suppers and
patchouli-scented rooms, the slang and high tinkling laughter. His brow
wrinkled up with pain as he walked up and down the room, filled with a
supreme self-pity.
He remembered half unconsciously that Charles Ravenshoe had said, "Will
the dawn never come? Will the dawn never come?" and he began to moan it
aloud, with an æsthetic pleasure in the feeling of desolation and
melancholy wasted hours--"will the dawn _never_ come?" He came opposite
the looking-glass, and was struck with the beauty of his own face, sad
and pure. He gazed intently for a minute or two, then his features
relaxed, and he breathed hard and smiled, murmuring, "Ah, well, a little
purity and romance whip the jaded soul pleasantly. Goodie is a darling,
and I love her, but still the others were amusing and piquant. They were
the iota subscripts of love!"
There were still two more letters to be opened. One ran:--
"162_a_, STRAND, W.C.
"DEAR MR. YARDLY GOBION,--I shall be glad if you will do us a
review of Canon Emeric's new book, _Art and Religion_. We can take
half a column--leaded type; and shall be glad to have the copy by
Friday at the latest. Are you going to be in town at all soon? If
so I shall possibly be able to give you work on _The Pilgrim_, as
we want an extra man, and I have been quite satisfied with what
you have done for us so far.
"Please do not be later than Friday with the review.
"Believe me, yours very truly,
"JAMES HEATH."
"Just what I want! good--I like _The Pilgrim_, it's smart--this is luck.
I suppose they like my 'occ' reviews. Heath always likes work that keeps
cleverly on the border, and I imagine that I have shown him how to be
realistic without being indelicate. Dear old Providence manages things
very well after all. I really must do a short drink on the strength of
this."
And he had some more brandy.
The last letter was simply a breakfast invitation.
He sat up for half an hour more making plans for the morrow, finally
deciding to borrow all the money he could and go up to town in the
afternoon.
It was now nearly half-past one, and the excitement of the debate and
later of the letters had left him shaking and tired, so he turned out
the light and went into his bedroom. Just as he was closing the door of
communication, he noticed by the firelight that his father's letter had
dropped on the hearthrug, and he went back, putting it in the fire with
a grin.
Then the door shut, and the room was silent.