The Philanthropist and the Happy Cat

"The Philanthropist and the Happy Cat" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, known by his pen name Saki. The narrative revolves around a wealthy philanthropist who takes great pride in his charitable endeavors. However, his self-congratulatory nature is challenged by the seemingly simple yet profound happiness of a cat. Saki's signature wit and keen observations satirize human nature, highlighting the contrast between genuine happiness and the performative aspects of altruism. Through clever dialogue and a whimsical premise, the story invites readers to reflect on the true essence of generosity and contentment.

• Short story

								
Jocantha Bessbury was in the mood to be serenely and graciously happy.
Her world was a pleasant place, and it was wearing one of its pleasantest
aspects.  Gregory had managed to get home for a hurried lunch and a smoke
afterwards in the little snuggery; the lunch had been a good one, and
there was just time to do justice to the coffee and cigarettes.  Both
were excellent in their way, and Gregory was, in his way, an excellent
husband.  Jocantha rather suspected herself of making him a very charming
wife, and more than suspected herself of having a first-rate dressmaker.

“I don’t suppose a more thoroughly contented personality is to be found
in all Chelsea,” observed Jocantha in allusion to herself; “except
perhaps Attab,” she continued, glancing towards the large tabby-marked
cat that lay in considerable ease in a corner of the divan.  “He lies
there, purring and dreaming, shifting his limbs now and then in an
ecstasy of cushioned comfort.  He seems the incarnation of everything
soft and silky and velvety, without a sharp edge in his composition, a
dreamer whose philosophy is sleep and let sleep; and then, as evening
draws on, he goes out into the garden with a red glint in his eyes and
slays a drowsy sparrow.”

“As every pair of sparrows hatches out ten or more young ones in the
year, while their food supply remains stationary, it is just as well that
the Attabs of the community should have that idea of how to pass an
amusing afternoon,” said Gregory.  Having delivered himself of this sage
comment he lit another cigarette, bade Jocantha a playfully affectionate
good-bye, and departed into the outer world.

“Remember, dinner’s a wee bit earlier to-night, as we’re going to the
Haymarket,” she called after him.

Left to herself, Jocantha continued the process of looking at her life
with placid, introspective eyes.  If she had not everything she wanted in
this world, at least she was very well pleased with what she had got.
She was very well pleased, for instance, with the snuggery, which
contrived somehow to be cosy and dainty and expensive all at once.  The
porcelain was rare and beautiful, the Chinese enamels took on wonderful
tints in the firelight, the rugs and hangings led the eye through
sumptuous harmonies of colouring.  It was a room in which one might have
suitably entertained an ambassador or an archbishop, but it was also a
room in which one could cut out pictures for a scrap-book without feeling
that one was scandalising the deities of the place with one’s litter.
And as with the snuggery, so with the rest of the house, and as with the
house, so with the other departments of Jocantha’s life; she really had
good reason for being one of the most contented women in Chelsea.

From being in a mood of simmering satisfaction with her lot she passed to
the phase of being generously commiserating for those thousands around
her whose lives and circumstances were dull, cheap, pleasureless, and
empty.  Work girls, shop assistants and so forth, the class that have
neither the happy-go-lucky freedom of the poor nor the leisured freedom
of the rich, came specially within the range of her sympathy.  It was sad
to think that there were young people who, after a long day’s work, had
to sit alone in chill, dreary bedrooms because they could not afford the
price of a cup of coffee and a sandwich in a restaurant, still less a
shilling for a theatre gallery.

Jocantha’s mind was still dwelling on this theme when she started forth
on an afternoon campaign of desultory shopping; it would be rather a
comforting thing, she told herself, if she could do something, on the
spur of the moment, to bring a gleam of pleasure and interest into the
life of even one or two wistful-hearted, empty-pocketed workers; it would
add a good deal to her sense of enjoyment at the theatre that night.  She
would get two upper circle tickets for a popular play, make her way into
some cheap tea-shop, and present the tickets to the first couple of
interesting work girls with whom she could casually drop into
conversation.  She could explain matters by saying that she was unable to
use the tickets herself and did not want them to be wasted, and, on the
other hand, did not want the trouble of sending them back.  On further
reflection she decided that it might be better to get only one ticket and
give it to some lonely-looking girl sitting eating her frugal meal by
herself; the girl might scrape acquaintance with her next-seat neighbour
at the theatre and lay the foundations of a lasting friendship.

With the Fairy Godmother impulse strong upon her, Jocantha marched into a
ticket agency and selected with immense care an upper circle seat for the
“Yellow Peacock,” a play that was attracting a considerable amount of
discussion and criticism.  Then she went forth in search of a tea-shop
and philanthropic adventure, at about the same time that Attab sauntered
into the garden with a mind attuned to sparrow stalking.  In a corner of
an A.B.C. shop she found an unoccupied table, whereat she promptly
installed herself, impelled by the fact that at the next table was
sitting a young girl, rather plain of feature, with tired, listless eyes,
and a general air of uncomplaining forlornness.  Her dress was of poor
material, but aimed at being in the fashion, her hair was pretty, and her
complexion bad; she was finishing a modest meal of tea and scone, and she
was not very different in her way from thousands of other girls who were
finishing, or beginning, or continuing their teas in London tea-shops at
that exact moment.  The odds were enormously in favour of the supposition
that she had never seen the “Yellow Peacock”; obviously she supplied
excellent material for Jocantha’s first experiment in haphazard
benefaction.

Jocantha ordered some tea and a muffin, and then turned a friendly
scrutiny on her neighbour with a view to catching her eye.  At that
precise moment the girl’s face lit up with sudden pleasure, her eyes
sparkled, a flush came into her cheeks, and she looked almost pretty.  A
young man, whom she greeted with an affectionate “Hullo, Bertie,” came up
to her table and took his seat in a chair facing her.  Jocantha looked
hard at the new-comer; he was in appearance a few years younger than
herself, very much better looking than Gregory, rather better looking, in
fact, than any of the young men of her set.  She guessed him to be a
well-mannered young clerk in some wholesale warehouse, existing and
amusing himself as best he might on a tiny salary, and commanding a
holiday of about two weeks in the year.  He was aware, of course, of his
good looks, but with the shy self-consciousness of the Anglo-Saxon, not
the blatant complacency of the Latin or Semite.  He was obviously on
terms of friendly intimacy with the girl he was talking to, probably they
were drifting towards a formal engagement.  Jocantha pictured the boy’s
home, in a rather narrow circle, with a tiresome mother who always wanted
to know how and where he spent his evenings.  He would exchange that

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