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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 honor, 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 broad-brimmed 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, raveling 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 antebellum 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 theaters. 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 theater 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 régime. 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 neighboring 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 theater 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 delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he
estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the
compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green
fringe! And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it,
after the selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling
depths!
After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one
morning that they were almost without money. The Anecdotes and
Reminiscences was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the
collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small house
which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Their
board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.
"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to
be called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I—"
The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill,
which he returned to his vest pocket.
"I must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from
our district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he
would use his influence to get my book published at an early date. I
will go to his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been
made."
With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father
Hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow
profoundly.
That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman
Fulghum had seen the publisher who had the Major's manuscript for
reading. That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were
carefully pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the
sectional and class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end
to end, he might consider its publication.
The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity,
according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's
presence.
"We must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above
her nose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle
Ralph for some to-night."
The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and
tossed it on the table.
"Perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so
merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a
new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness its
first production in Washington. I am told that the South has very
fair treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the
performance myself."
Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.
Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So
that evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively
overture, even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for
the hour, to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with his
extraordinary coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and
his white hair smoothly roached, looked really fine and
distinguished. The curtain went up on the first act of A Magnolia
Flower, revealing a typical Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot
betrayed some interest.
"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to
her program.
The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of
characters that her fingers indicated.
Col. Webster Calhoun …. Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.
"It's our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first
appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."
Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the
stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff,
glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a
little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. For
Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one
pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the
aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt
front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were
almost exactly duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he
wore the twin to the Major's supposed to be unparalleled coat.
High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot
lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed
from no other pattern. From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat
bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot
"dragged," as the Major afterward expressed it, "through the
slanderous mire of a corrupt stage."
Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the
Major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and
his pompous courtliness to perfection—exaggerating all to the
purpose of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that the
Major fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the
audience sent forth a sudden round of hearty applause.
Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as
if to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she
could not entirely suppress.
The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the
third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of
the neighboring planters in his "den."
Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends
grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character
monologue so famous in A Magnolia Flower, at the same time that he
deftly makes juleps for the party.
Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his
best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and
expanded, and the dream of the Anecdotes and Reminiscences served,
exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative—that of his duel
with Rathbone Culbertson—was not omitted, and it was delivered with
more fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into it.
The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little
lecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act.
Here Major Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a
hair's breadth—from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed—"the
one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you
extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this
heaven-bestowed plant"—to his solicitous selection of the oaten
straws.
At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of
appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and
thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed,
his rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of
success.
At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils
were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands
upon the arms of his chair to rise.
"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 demeanor.
"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 motheaten pride of family, and his really
kind heart, fastidious sense of honor, 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 honor"—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 theater. 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 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 theater 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 offense," 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 honor
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 honor. 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 downtown theater, 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
colored 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 luster 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,
you took the name of—don't prompt me—Mitchell, and went to the
West—to Nebraska."
"Yassir, yassir,"—the old man's face stretched with a delighted
grin—"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me—Mose Mitchell. Old
Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a
pah of dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You
'member dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"
"I don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I
hope you have prospered."
Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor
beside it.
"Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yessir—three hundred.
"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought
some lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all
doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come
along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'
Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money,
property, and lan'."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."
"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton—one what you name Miss
Lyddy—I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't
know her."
The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you
come?"
Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in
from her room.
"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed
up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"
"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."
"Well," said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and
was a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I
can't remember you."
And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting
each other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.
The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.
"Uncle Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis'
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along."
"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.
"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here
house one mawnin'.
"What I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket—"besides de sight of home folks—was to pay Mars' Pendleton
what I owes him.
"Yessir—three hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills.
"When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it
be so you gits able, pay fur 'em.' Yessir—dem was his words. De war
had done lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' long ago dead,
de debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle
Mose is plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid
off to pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's
what I sold dem mules fur. Yessir."
Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and
laid his other upon his shoulder.
"Dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I
don't mind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar
in the world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose,
since, in a way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the
loyalty and devotion of the old régime. Lydia, my dear, take the
money. You are better fitted than I to manage its expenditure."
"Take it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."
After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry—-for joy; and
the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.
The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new
frock coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the
memory of his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript
of the Anecdotes and Reminiscences thought that, with a little
retouching and toning down of the high lights, he could make a
really bright and salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation
was comfortable, and not without the touch of hope that is often
sweeter than arrived blessings.
One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought
a letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was
from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild
flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with
her scissors. This was what she read:
DEAR MISS TALBOT:
I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in A Magnolia Flower.
There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better
not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the
great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor
he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I
could easily spare the three hundred.
Sincerely yours,
H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES.
P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?
Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open
and stopped.
"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.
Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.
"The Mobile Chronicle came," she said promptly. "It's on the table
in your study."
The Duplicity of Hargraves
A Classic Funny Story
by
O. Henry |
