Unmatched Saki.

The news has been so dull lately that I’ve been forced to read. Books. What’s more, literature. It’s a sad state of affairs. I’d much rather watch network news than think, but they keep re-using the same, tired plots. Wall Street is still being written by Honore de Balzac (“Great fortunes conceal great crimes”) and American politics was summed up ninety years ago by William Butler Yeats (“The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”) As for the current straits of the Catholic Church, it’s a simple case of “Do as I say, but don’t tell anyone.” Everything else is Papal bull.

I’ve already written about my attempt to read all eight hundred and seventeen pages of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (“Anatevka Karenina” 6/20/09) so don’t expect anything as ambitious this time. Instead, I’ve gone back to one of my favorite short stories, “Sredni Vashtar” by Saki (H.H. Munro.)

You don’t hear much about Saki these days. That’s a shame because he’s a wonderful writer and deserves to be more popular. He was a contemporary (1870-1916) of Oscar Wilde and arguably his equal in wit. Saki, however, excelled at short stories. Clever, as well as witty, they combine carefully observed satire and black humor with a strong sense of earthbound fantasy and a respect for surprise endings. His nearest rivals in this form are Ambrose Bierce, John Collier and Roald Dahl. Saki’s life also had a surprise ending. Like Wilde, he died tragically at the age of forty six while in France. Although, in his case, he was fighting World War I, not the British legal system.

“Sredni Vashtar” is about a young boy named Conradin, who lives with his cruel, older cousin, Mrs. De Ropp. Using his poor health as an excuse, she acts more like his guard then his guardian. She rarely lets him out of the house and never out of her sight. To Conradin, “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.” She won’t even make him toast. Her excuse is that it’s bad for him, though “In her honestest moments… she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ‘for his good’ was a duty that she that she did not find particularly irksome.”

For companionship, he relies on two pets hidden in a backyard shed: a hen “On which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet” and a ferret. He gives the ferret “A wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion.” That may seem excessive, but “Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.” Since his guardian is a faithful churchgoer, Conradin goes, understandably, in a more Old Testament direction. He worships Sredni Vashtar, “ A god who laid some special emphasis on the fierce, impatient side of things.”

Wondering why he spends so much time in the shed, the guardian investigates. Next morning, she announces that the hen has been sold and taken away overnight. Conradin doesn’t respond. He won’t give her the satisfaction. Privately, though, he prays to his still hidden ferret for revenge. “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.” Clearly, Conradin has added a fillip of near-eastern fanaticism to his home-brewed religion. It’s justified, however, for his guardian is about to add iconoclasm to her program of deliberate cruelty. Seeing that his trips to the shed haven’t stopped, she inspects it again and finds a suspicious, locked hutch. Ransacking his room for the key, Mrs. De Ropp goes back to empty it out. She never returns. Instead, “Out through the doorway came a long, low, yellow and brown beast, with eyes a-blink through the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat.” Servants eventually find the body. “'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.”

It may seem a little grim at first, but the actual violence is treated with exquisite tact. Our sensation-hungry culture demands that writers describe arteries bursting like fire hoses. A movie would insist on a close-up of her gaping trachea. Thank heavens for Saki, who only suggests the mayhem. What’s more, this story illustrates the difference between the principled violence of Conradin and the unprincipled violence of Mrs. De Ropp. At least six wars after the one in which the author was killed, that still isn’t clear to some people. Especially those in power.

Some may think it’s a very sad story about an abused child. Not at all. This little boy is sensitive, intelligent and wise beyond his years. The savvy way he adjusts to his environment would do credit to someone ten times his age. “One of these days Conradin supposed he would give into the mastering pressures of wearisome necessary things – such as illnesses, coddling restrictions and drawn out dullness. Without his imagination, rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.” Bring on the nursing homes! Old age holds no horrors for this stout lad. Mrs. De Ropp, on the other hand, is person without inner resources. The sort of dull, unreflective, knuckle-dragger that tends to cluster in the upper reaches of advertising and, as one glance at the headlines will tell you, fairly dominates politics. The only thing that may be slightly sad is if the doctor, who diagnoses him with a fatal and incurable disease at the beginning of the story, is right.

I prefer to think of “Sredni Vashtar” as a positive story. Even inspiring. It’s about a person whose faith is tested and, finally, rewarded. True, he’s delivered by a ferret, but how is that any different from Androcles and the Lion? There are contemporary resonances as well. If his faith was in himself, he’d be Rocky. If the ferret was a small, friendly alien, it would be E.T., but with an attitude. In a way it’s about growing up, too, and how you have to kill some people along the way. Symbolically, if you believe in Sophocles and Freud and not if you’re a follower of Sredni Vashtar. At the very least, it’s a story about justice. Particularly that wild justice called revenge, which, in this case, is a dish that’s best served toasted.