Paris Spleen (New Directions Paperbook) by Baudelaire Charles

Author:Baudelaire, Charles [Baudelaire, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811221863
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 1970-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

XXVIII

* * *

COUNTERFEIT

AS WE WERE leaving the tobacconist’s I saw my friend carefully separating his money; in the left pocket of his waistcoat he slipped all the gold pieces; in the right, the silver; in his left trouser pocket he put a handful of pennies, and finally in the right, after the most careful scrutiny, a two-franc piece.

“What a singularly minute distribution,” I said to myself.

Soon we passed a beggar who held out his cap to us with a trembling hand. For the man of feeling who is able to read them, I know nothing more distressing than the mute eloquence of a pauper’s pleading eyes, so full of humility and reproach. There is in them something of the profound and complex emotion to be seen in the tear-filled eyes of a dog being beaten.

My friend’s offering was considerably larger than mine, and I said to him: “You are right; next to feeling surprise oneself, there is no greater pleasure than giving someone else a surprise.” “It was counterfeit,” he replied tranquilly as though to justify his prodigality.

But in my miserable brain, which is forever flying off at a tangent (what an exhausting faculty nature has given me!), the idea suddenly occurred to me that such conduct in my friend was only excusable if it came from a desire of bringing some excitement into the poor devil’s life, perhaps even of learning all the different consequences, disastrous or otherwise, that a counterfeit coin in the hands of a beggar, might engender. Might it not multiply into many pieces of good money? Might it not also lead to prison? A baker, a tavern keeper, for instance, might have him arrested as a counterfeiter or a disseminator of bad money. But on the other hand, the counterfeit coin for a poor little speculator, might well be the germ of several days’ wealth. And so my fancy ran riot, lending wings to my friend’s imagination and drawing all possible deductions from all possible hypotheses.

But he rudely shattered my reverie by repeating my own words: “Yes, you are right, there is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he expects.”

I looked him squarely in the eye, and I was appalled to see that his eyes shone with unquestionable candor. I understood perfectly then that his object had been to perform a charitable deed while making a good speculation; to gain forty sols and God’s heart at the same time, and to win paradise economically; in short, to carry off gratis a certificate of charity. I could almost have forgiven him his desire for the reprehensible enjoyment I had just been supposing him capable of; I should have found something curious, arresting in his desire to compromise paupers; but I will never pardon him the ineptitude of his calculation. To be mean is never excusable, but there is some virtue in knowing that one is; the unforgivable vice is to do harm out of stupidity.

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