The Duplicity of Hargraves

"The Duplicity of Hargraves" is a short story by O. Henry that explores themes of deception, social class, and the cleverness of human nature. The narrative follows the character of Hargraves, a seemingly unassuming and impoverished man who engages in a series of clever schemes to outwit those around him. Set against a backdrop of urban life, the story highlights O. Henry's trademark wit and irony, culminating in a twist that reveals the true nature of both Hargraves and the society that judges him. Through humor and keen observation, the tale delves into the complexities of identity and the sometimes duplicitous nature of appearances.

• Short story

								
When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, Miss
Lydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for a
boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of the
quietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with a
portico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by stately
locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink and
white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the fence
and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place that
pleased the eyes of the Talbots.

In this pleasant, private boarding house they engaged rooms, including
a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his
book, “Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and
Bar.”

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little
interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period
before the Civil War, when the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine
cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was
the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the
aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all its old
pride and scruples of honour, an antiquated and punctilious politeness,
and (you would think) its wardrobe.

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The major was
tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he
called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That
garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased to
shy at the frocks and broadbrimmed hats of Southern congressmen. One of
the boarders christened it a “Father Hubbard,” and it certainly was
high in the waist and full in the skirt.

But the major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of plaited,
ravelling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with the bow
always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in Mrs.
Vardeman’s select boarding house. Some of the young department clerks
would often “string him,” as they called it, getting him started upon
the subject dearest to him—the traditions and history of his beloved
Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the “Anecdotes
and Reminiscences.” But they were very careful not to let him see their
designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years, he could make the
boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his piercing
gray eyes.

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly
drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older. Old
fashioned, too, she was; but ante-bellum glory did not radiate from her
as it did from the major. She possessed a thrifty common sense; and it
was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all comers when
there were bills to pay. The major regarded board bills and wash bills
as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so persistently and so
often. Why, the major wanted to know, could they not be filed and paid
in a lump sum at some convenient period—say when the “Anecdotes and
Reminiscences” had been published and paid for? Miss Lydia would calmly
go on with her sewing and say, “We’ll pay as we go as long as the money
lasts, and then perhaps they’ll have to lump it.”

Most of Mrs. Vardeman’s boarders were away during the day, being nearly
all department clerks and business men; but there was one of them who
was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This was a
young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves—every one in the house
addressed him by his full name—who was engaged at one of the popular
vaudeville theatres. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane
in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest and
well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.

At the theatre Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian,
having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face
specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his
great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot.
Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or
repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always
be found, the most attentive among his listeners.

For a time the major showed an inclination to discourage the advances
of the “play actor,” as he privately termed him; but soon the young
man’s agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old
gentleman’s stories completely won him over.

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The major set apart
each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During the
anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right point.
The major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young
Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for
the old regime. And when it came to talking of those old days—if Major
Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen.

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the major loved to
linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of
the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of
the Negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor
happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year; but
Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary, he
would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the
life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.

The fox hunts, the ’possum suppers, the hoe downs and jubilees in the
Negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when
invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the
neighbouring gentry; the major’s duel with Rathbone Culbertson about
Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and
private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaint
beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves—all
these were subjects that held both the major and Hargraves absorbed for
hours at a time.

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to his
room after his turn at the theatre was over, the major would appear at
the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in, Hargraves
would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl, fruit, and a
big bunch of fresh green mint.

“It occurred to me,” the major would begin—he was always
ceremonious—“that perhaps you might have found your duties at the—at
your place of occupation—sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr.
Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind
when he wrote, ‘tired Nature’s sweet restorer,’—one of our Southern
juleps.”

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank
among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. With what

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