The Duplicity of Hargraves Page #3

"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

								


“We will go, Lydia,” he said chokingly. “This is an
abominable—desecration.”

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat. “We will stay
it out,” she declared. “Do you want to advertise the copy by exhibiting
the original coat?” So they remained to the end.

Hargraves’s success must have kept him up late that night, for neither
at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot’s
study. The major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands full
of the morning papers—too full of his triumph to notice anything
unusual in the major’s demeanour.

“I put it all over ’em last night, major,” he began exultantly. “I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here’s what the Post says:

His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with his
absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and
phrases, his moth-eaten pride of family, and his really kind heart,
fastidious sense of honour, and lovable simplicity, is the best
delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by
Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius. Mr.
Hargraves has captured his public.

“How does that sound, major, for a first nighter?”

“I had the honour”—the major’s voice sounded ominously frigid—“of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night.”

Hargraves looked disconcerted.

“You were there? I didn’t know you ever—I didn’t know you cared for the
theatre. Oh, I say, Major Talbot,” he exclaimed frankly, “don’t you be
offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that helped me
out wonderfully in the part. But it’s a type, you know—not individual.
The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the patrons of that
theatre are Southerners. They recognized it.”

“Mr. Hargraves,” said the major, who had remained standing, “you have
put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person,
grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I
thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign
manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir,
old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir.”

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to take
in the full meaning of the old gentleman’s words.

“I am truly sorry you took offence,” he said regretfully. “Up here we
don’t look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy
out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the
public would recognize it.”

“They are not from Alabama, sir,” said the major haughtily.

“Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, major; let me quote a few
lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given
in—Milledgeville, I believe—you uttered, and intend to have printed,
these words:

The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so
far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He will
suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honour of
himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence of
pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but it
must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.

“Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun last night?”

“The description,” said the major frowning, “is—not without grounds.
Some exag—latitude must be allowed in public speaking.”

“And in public acting,” replied Hargraves.

“That is not the point,” persisted the major, unrelenting. “It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir.”

“Major Talbot,” said Hargraves, with a winning smile, “I wish you would
understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of insulting
you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I want, and
what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if you will, let’s
let it go at that. I came in to see you about something else. We’ve
been pretty good friends for some months, and I’m going to take the
risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up for money—never
mind how I found out; a boarding house is no place to keep such matters
secret—and I want you to let me help you out of the pinch. I’ve been
there often enough myself. I’ve been getting a fair salary all the
season, and I’ve saved some money. You’re welcome to a couple
hundred—or even more—until you get—”

“Stop!” commanded the major, with his arm outstretched. “It seems that
my book didn’t lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal all
the hurts of honour. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan from
a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before I
would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the
circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relative to
your quitting the apartment.”

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left the
house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper
table, nearer the vicinity of the down-town theatre, where “A Magnolia
Flower” was booked for a week’s run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was
no one in Washington to whom the major’s scruples allowed him to apply
for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was
doubtful whether that relative’s constricted affairs would permit him
to furnish help. The major was forced to make an apologetic address to
Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to
“delinquent rentals” and “delayed remittances” in a rather confused
strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old coloured
man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The major asked that he be sent up
to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat
in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quite
decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shone
with a metallic lustre suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool was
gray—almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the
age of a Negro. This one might have seen as many years as had Major
Talbot.

“I be bound you don’t know me, Mars’ Pendleton,” were his first words.

The major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had
been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

“I don’t believe I do,” he said kindly—“unless you will assist my
memory.”

“Don’t you ’member Cindy’s Mose, Mars’ Pendleton, what ’migrated
’mediately after de war?”

“Wait a moment,” said the major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of
his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those beloved
days. “Cindy’s Mose,” he reflected. “You worked among the
horses—breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender,
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