Laploshka was one of the meanest men I have ever met, and quite one of
the most entertaining. He said horrid things about other people in such
a charming way that one forgave him for the equally horrid things he said
about oneself behind one's back. Hating anything in the way of
ill-natured gossip ourselves, we are always grateful to those who do it
for us and do it well. And Laploshka did it really well.
Naturally Laploshka had a large circle of acquaintances, and as he
exercised some care in their selection it followed that an appreciable
proportion were men whose bank balances enabled them to acquiesce
indulgently in his rather one-sided views on hospitality. Thus, although
possessed of only moderate means, he was able to live comfortably within
his income, and still more comfortably within those of various tolerantly
disposed associates.
But towards the poor or to those of the same limited resources as himself
his attitude was one of watchful anxiety; he seemed to be haunted by a
besetting fear lest some fraction of a shilling or franc, or whatever the
prevailing coinage might be, should be diverted from his pocket or
service into that of a hard-up companion. A two-franc cigar would be
cheerfully offered to a wealthy patron, on the principle of doing evil
that good may come, but I have known him indulge in agonies of perjury
rather than admit the incriminating possession of a copper coin when
change was needed to tip a waiter. The coin would have been duly
returned at the earliest opportunity--he would have taken means to insure
against forgetfulness on the part of the borrower--but accidents might
happen, and even the temporary estrangement from his penny or sou was a
calamity to be avoided.
The knowledge of this amiable weakness offered a perpetual temptation to
play upon Laploshka's fears of involuntary generosity. To offer him a
lift in a cab and pretend not to have enough money to pay the fair, to
fluster him with a request for a sixpence when his hand was full of
silver just received in change, these were a few of the petty torments
that ingenuity prompted as occasion afforded. To do justice to
Laploshka's resourcefulness it must be admitted that he always emerged
somehow or other from the most embarrassing dilemma without in any way
compromising his reputation for saying "No." But the gods send
opportunities at some time to most men, and mine came one evening when
Laploshka and I were supping together in a cheap boulevard restaurant.
(Except when he was the bidden guest of some one with an irreproachable
income, Laploshka was wont to curb his appetite for high living; on such
fortunate occasions he let it go on an easy snaffle.) At the conclusion
of the meal a somewhat urgent message called me away, and without heeding
my companion's agitated protest, I called back cruelly, "Pay my share;
I'll settle with you to-morrow." Early on the morrow Laploshka hunted me
down by instinct as I walked along a side street that I hardly ever
frequented. He had the air of a man who had not slept.
"You owe me two francs from last night," was his breathless greeting.
I spoke evasively of the situation in Portugal, where more trouble seemed
brewing. But Laploshka listened with the abstraction of the deaf adder,
and quickly returned to the subject of the two francs.
"I'm afraid I must owe it to you," I said lightly and brutally. "I
haven't a sou in the world," and I added mendaciously, "I'm going away
for six months or perhaps longer."
Laploshka said nothing, but his eyes bulged a little and his cheeks took
on the mottled hues of an ethnographical map of the Balkan Peninsula.
That same day, at sundown, he died. "Failure of the heart's action," was
the doctor's verdict; but I, who knew better, knew that he died of grief.
There arose the problem of what to do with his two francs. To have
killed Laploshka was one thing; to have kept his beloved money would have
argued a callousness of feeling of which I am not capable. The ordinary
solution, of giving it to the poor, would by no means fit the present
situation, for nothing would have distressed the dead man more than such
a misuse of his property. On the other hand, the bestowal of two francs
on the rich was an operation which called for some tact. An easy way out
of the difficulty seemed, however, to present itself the following
Sunday, as I was wedged into the cosmopolitan crowd which filled the
side-aisle of one of the most popular Paris churches. A collecting-bag,
for "the poor of Monsieur le Cure," was buffeting its tortuous way across
the seemingly impenetrable human sea, and a German in front of me, who
evidently did not wish his appreciation of the magnificent music to be
marred by a suggestion of payment, made audible criticisms to his
companion on the claims of the said charity.
"They do not want money," he said; "they have too much money. They have
no poor. They are all pampered."
If that were really the case my way seemed clear. I dropped Laploshka's
two francs into the bag with a murmured blessing on the rich of Monsieur
le Cure.
Some three weeks later chance had taken me to Vienna, and I sat one
evening regaling myself in a humble but excellent little Gasthaus up in
the Wahringer quarter. The appointments were primitive, but the
Schnitzel, the beer, and the cheese could not have been improved on.
Good cheer brought good custom, and with the exception of one small table
near the door every place was occupied. Half-way through my meal I
happened to glance in the direction of that empty seat, and saw that it
was no longer empty. Poring over the bill of fare with the absorbed
scrutiny of one who seeks the cheapest among the cheap was Laploshka.
Once he looked across at me, with a comprehensive glance at my repast, as
though to say, "It is my two francs you are eating," and then looked
swiftly away. Evidently the poor of Monsieur le Cure had been genuine
poor. The Schnitzel turned to leather in my mouth, the beer seemed
tepid; I left the Emmenthaler untasted. My one idea was to get away from
the room, away from the table where _that_ was seated; and as I fled I
felt Laploshka's reproachful eyes watching the amount that I gave to the
piccolo--out of his two francs. I lunched next day at an expensive
restaurant which I felt sure that the living Laploshka would never have
entered on his own account, and I hoped that the dead Laploshka would
observe the same barriers. I was not mistaken, but as I came out I found
him miserably studying the bill of fare stuck up on the portals. Then he
slowly made his way over to a milk-hall. For the first time in my
experience I missed the charm and gaiety of Vienna life.
After that, in Paris or London or wherever I happened to be, I continued
to see a good deal of Laploshka. If I had a seat in a box at a theatre I
was always conscious of his eyes furtively watching me from the dim
recesses of the gallery. As I turned into my club on a rainy afternoon I
would see him taking inadequate shelter in a doorway opposite. Even if I
indulged in the modest luxury of a penny chair in the Park he generally
confronted me from one of the free benches, never staring at me, but
always elaborately conscious of my presence. My friends began to comment
on my changed looks, and advised me to leave off heaps of things. I
should have liked to have left off Laploshka.
On a certain Sunday--it was probably Easter, for the crush was worse than
ever--I was again wedged into the crowd listening to the music in the
fashionable Paris church, and again the collection-bag was buffeting its
way across the human sea. An English lady behind me was making
ineffectual efforts to convey a coin into the still distant bag, so I
took the money at her request and helped it forward to its destination.
It was a two-franc piece. A swift inspiration came to me, and I merely
dropped my own sou into the bag and slid the silver coin into my pocket.
I had withdrawn Laploshka's two francs from the poor, who should never
have had the legacy. As I backed away from the crowd I heard a woman's
voice say, "I don't believe he put my money in the bag. There are swarms
of people in Paris like that!" But my mind was lighter that it had been
for a long time.
The delicate mission of bestowing the retrieved sum on the deserving rich
still confronted me. Again I trusted to the inspiration of accident, and
again fortune favoured me. A shower drove me, two days later, into one
of the historic churches on the left bank of the Seine, and there I
found, peering at the old wood-carvings, the Baron R., one of the
wealthiest and most shabbily dressed men in Paris. It was now or never.
Putting a strong American inflection into the French which I usually
talked with an unmistakable British accent, I catechised the Baron as to
the date of the church's building, its dimensions, and other details
which an American tourist would be certain to want to know. Having
acquired such information as the Baron was able to impart on short
notice, I solemnly placed the two-franc piece in his hand, with the
hearty assurance that it was "pour vous," and turned to go. The Baron
was slightly taken aback, but accepted the situation with a good grace.
Walking over to a small box fixed in the wall, he dropped Laploshka's two
francs into the slot. Over the box was the inscription, "Pour les
pauvres de M. le Cure."
That evening, at the crowded corner by the Cafe de la Paix, I caught a
fleeting glimpse of Laploshka. He smiled, slightly raised his hat, and
vanished. I never saw him again. After all, the money had been _given_
to the deserving rich, and the soul of Laploshka was at peace.