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 ensure 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 fare, 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 tomorrow.” 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 be had 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 fined 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 Ementhaler 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 that 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 than 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 catechized 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.