Sredni Vashtar

by H H Munro (Saki)

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had given his professional opinion that the boy
would not live another five years. The doctor counted for little, but his opinion was
supported by Mrs De Ropp who counted for nearly everything. Mrs De Ropp was
Conradin’s cousin and guardian, and for him she represented those three-fifths of the world
that are necessary and unpleasant and real; the other two-fifths were himself and his
imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would give in to the pressure of
miserable reality and die. Without his imagination, he would have died long ago.

Mrs De Ropp would never have admitted to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she
was dimly aware that stopping him doing things ‘for his own good’ was a duty she didn’t find
unpleasant. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was able to hide
perfectly. The few pleasures he could find for himself were increased by knowing they
would displease her if she found out about them, and in particular she was locked out from
the world of his imagination – an unclean thing that would never enter it.

He found little attraction in the dull cheerless garden, which was overlooked by so many
windows ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that his medicines
were due. He wasn’t allowed to pick anything from the few fruit trees. But in a forgotten
corner, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of reasonable size,
and in it Conradin found a refuge – partly a playroom and partly a cathedral. He had peopled
it with friends from his imagination, but it also housed two real creatures.

In one corner lived a ragged Houdan hen on which he lavished all the affection he could
show to no-one else. 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 home of a large
polecat-ferret which a friendly butcher-boy had smuggled in, cage and all, in return for the
small amount of money that Conradin had secretly saved. Conradin was very afraid of the
lithe, sharp-fanged creature, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the
tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept completely from the Woman as he privately
called his cousin.

And one day, from Heaven knows what material, he created a wonderful name for the beast,
and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion
once a week at the church nearby and made Conradin go with her, but the church service
meant nothing to him. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he
worshipped before the wooden hutch where lived Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. He lay red
flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time in front of the hutch as if it were
a shrine. And on great festivals he scattered powdered nutmeg there, the important feature
being that the nutmeg was stolen from the kitchen. These festivals were irregular and
celebrated some event. On one occasion, when Mrs De Ropp suffered acute toothache for
three days, Conradin kept up the festival for the full three days and almost persuaded himself
that Sredni Vashtar had caused the toothache. If it had lasted another day, the household
supply of nutmeg would have given out.

After a while Conradin’s visits to the tool-shed attracted the notice of his guardian. “It’s 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 him to show
anger or sorrow which she was ready to answer with reasons and advice. But Conradin said
nothing: there was nothing to be said. Perhaps something in his white set face gave her a
momentary pause, 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 making it ‘gave the
servants trouble’.

“I thought you liked toast,” she exclaimed in an injured tone when he didn’t touch it.

“Sometimes,” said Conradin.

In the shed that evening there was a change in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had
previously chanted his praises; tonight he asked a favour.

“Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”

He did not say what the thing was. As Sredni Vashtar was a god, he would know what it
was. And choking back a sob as he looked at the other empty corner, Conradin went back to
the world he hated so much.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of
the tool-shed, Conradin’s bitter prayer went up: “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”

Why do you think Conradin bought a ferret from the butcher’s boy? Why
doesn’t he get something he can touch and stroke like a guinea pig or rabbit?

Conradin keeps saying, “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar”. What do you
think he is asking Sredni Vashtar to do?
Mrs De Ropp noticed that his visits to the shed did not cease, and 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 cleared away.”

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the
carefully hidden key, and she straightway marched down to the shed. It was a cold afternoon
and Conradin had been told to keep indoors. 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 he imagined her opening the door
of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw where
his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw with her clumsy impatience. And
Conradin breathed his prayer for the last time.

But he knew as he prayed that he didn’t really believe. He knew the Woman would come out
presently with that pursed smile he loathed so much on her face, and within an hour or two
the gardener would carry away his wonderful god – a god no longer but just a big brown
ferret in a hutch. And he knew the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and
he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering till one day nothing
would matter anymore 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 he had made up for his idol:

Sredni Vashtar went forth,

And then he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window. The door of the shed stood
ajar, blown to and fro in the cold breeze, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long
minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in
little groups across the lawn; he counted them over and over again with one eye always on
the swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin
stood and waited and watched. Hope crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of
triumph began to blaze in his eyes which had only known the wistful patience of defeat.
Under his breath he chanted his prayer, but this time it was a cry of victory and devastation.

And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through the doorway came a long, low, yellow-
and-brown creature, eyes blinking in the daylight, and dark wet stains round the fur of its
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?”

And while the maid went to summon her mistress for 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 beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish
screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of cries from the kitchen area, the scuttering
footsteps and hurried exits to fetch outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and
shuffling tread of those who carried a heavy burden into the house.

“Whoever will break it to the poor child?” exclaimed a shrill voice. “I couldn’t for the life of
me!” And while they debated this among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece
of toast.

Debate Topic:

Is Conradin a murderer? What’s your verdict?

 Murder is when someone causes someone else’s death intentionally or recklessly.

 If the death is caused by carelessness, it is manslaughter which is a lesser crime.

 If the death is an accident, it is accidental death and no-one is to blame.)

Let us know your verdict on Twitter: @DeptfordGreen using #Conradinisguilty OR