英语短篇小说赏析-Sredni Vashtar
Sredni VashtarSaki
Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional
opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and
effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp,
who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and
guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that
are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual
antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One
of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of
wearisome necessary things - such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and
drawn-out dullness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of
loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.
Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to
herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that
thwarting him 'for his good' was a duty which she did not find particularly
irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly
able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an
added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian,
and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out - an unclean thing,
which should find no entrance.
In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were
ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that
medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it
contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare
specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been
difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for
their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden
behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions,
and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying
aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of
familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his
own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner
lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that
had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch,
divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars.
This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had
once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a
long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the
lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very
presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously
from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day,
out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from
that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion
once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the
church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the
dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate
ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret.
Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered
at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce
impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as
Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on
great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important
feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals
were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some
passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache
for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and
almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally
responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the
supply of nutmeg would have given out.
The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin
had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the
remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it
was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which
he based and detested all respectability.
After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the
notice of his guardian. "It is not good for him to be pottering down there in
all weathers," she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced
that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her
short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and
sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and
reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something
perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that
afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on
the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it "gave
trouble," a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.
"I thought you liked toast," she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing
that he did not touch it.
"Sometimes," said Conradin.
In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the
hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a
boon.
"Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar."
The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be
supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer,
Conradin went back to the world he so hated.
And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening
in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin's bitter litany went up: "Do one thing
for me, Sredni Vashtar."
Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day
she made a further journey of inspection.
"What are you keeping in that locked hutch?" she asked. "I believe it's
guinea-pigs. I'll have them all cleared away."
Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she
found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to
complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to
keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the
shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin
stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the
door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the
thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in
her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last
time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman
would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face,
and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a
god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman
would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more
sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day
nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right.
And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and
defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:
Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.
And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the
window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the
minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by
nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties
across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on
that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and
still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his
heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known
the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he
began once again the paean of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes
were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown
beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the
fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret
made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a
moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes.
Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.
"Tea is ready," said the sour-faced maid; "where is the mistress?"
"She went down to the shed some time ago," said Conradin. And while the
maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of
the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during
the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow
enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell
in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the
maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region,
the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after
a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy
burden into the house.
"Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!"
exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves,
Conradin made himself another piece of toast.
Avbout the author:
Hector Hugh Munro (December 18, 1870 – November 13, 1916), better known by
the pen name Saki, was a British writer, whose witty and sometimes macabre
stories satirised Edwardian society and culture. He is considered a master of
the short story. His tales feature delicately drawn characters and finely judged
narratives.
Notes:
The story concerns a 10-year-old boy called Conradin, who lives with his
strict cousin and guardian, Mrs. De Ropp. Conradin rebels against her and
invents a new religion for himself, which centres around idolising a
polecat-ferret he calls Sredni Vashtar; a vengeful, merciless god. Conradin
keeps the polecat hidden in a cage in the garden shed, and worships the idol in
secret. The story comes to a climax when his cousin sets out to discover his
god.
Sredni Vashtar雪貂
effete adj.柔弱的,女人气的
succumb vi.1.屈服;委弃;听任 2.被压垮;死
legion n.1.古罗马军团 2.众多, 大量
polecat n.臭猫,北美产之臭鼬类
ferret n.1.雪貂,白鼬 2.(经常性的)搜索者
qualm n.(对自己行为的)顾虑，不安
ejaculation n.1.突然的叫出声 2.射出
scutter v.疾走
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