The Soul of Laploshka Page #2

"The Soul of Laploshka" is a satirical short story by Hector Hugh Munro, often known by his pen name, Saki. The narrative blends humor and social commentary as it follows the eccentric interactions of a young woman and her unconventional suitor. Set against a backdrop of Edwardian society, the story explores themes of love, societal expectations, and the absurdities of human behavior, ultimately revealing deeper truths about the nature of relationships and individuality. Munro's wit and cleverness shine throughout, making this a captivating and thought-provoking read.

• Short story

								

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I had withdrawn Laploshka's two francs from the poor, who should never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.
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