The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night. Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then Rainsford heard a sound.
It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.
Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the most welcome he had ever heard--the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore.
He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top.
Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life. When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon.
Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore. He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.
Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson.
A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge. It must have been a fairly large animal too.
The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it. He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the print of hunting boots.
They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island. Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building--a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom.
His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.
But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.
He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall.
The door opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring--and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen--a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist.
In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart. I fell off a yacht. The menacing look in the eyes did not change.
The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them.
He was dressed in uniform--a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan. I am hungry. The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.
In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home.
Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face--the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat.
Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot. Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.
Rainsford," said the general. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think. It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke. The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat.
About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china. They were eating borsch , the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates.
Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip? He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable.
Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt. But I got the brute. For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile.
Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game. The general smiled. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing.
I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port? The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea , and he was an ardent sportsman.
When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I read this little short story when I was about 12 or 13 years old, in what we called grammar school, some 50 years ago.
It has always been in the background of my memory as a story that gave me the desire to read and explore the world of literature. I had to reread this again, and thanks to Bobby Underwood I remembered this great classic and found it.
Thanks Bobby, it was a fun read, one I'll probably read again sometime if I live long enough. It is a masterpiece of classic literature IMHO. May I read this little short story when I was about 12 or 13 years old, in what we called grammar school, some 50 years ago. Maybe l'm just being nostalgic in my Old Age.
I hope not, it was a great re-read and I enjoyed it immensely! I blame my school for this. The three components of this book: - misogyny - Hitler's "perfect race" mindset - insensitivity I blame my school for this. The three components of this book: - misogyny - Hitler's "perfect race" mindset - insensitivity Jul 23, Chadi Raheb rated it it was ok Shelves: short-stories , dehors , recom-amis.
I did. The first two pages were amusing enough, but the rest of it was a real boredom to me. God I just wanted it to be over! And I suppose Zarrof deeply misunderstood the point of Darwin's theory when he was talking nonsenses which meant that absolutely anything is allowed for the strong to be done; which was so selfish of him!
I cannot say it was a disaster because it was not; there were some high ranked collocations to learn, but I really didn't enjoy the story as I was expecting to. I made a good skimming-practice out of it, though.
But if I don't enjoy, I don't learn. The Wiki also claimed the story served, in part, as inspiration for creating the game paintball in The tense narration by Edward French had my attention from the start and was over too soon for my like. I hardly noticed my task was complete I was so riveted by the story unfolding. The ending was perfect too! Being a book to film fan, I watched the film adaption of this story by the same name. It was amusing but not wholly positive.
The acting and set had a cheesy feel, kind of like an old Tarzan movie. I was surprised by the gore view spoiler [One victim was shown being pulled under water by a shark and then it showed an underwater view of the shark surrounded by a dark cloud in the water. While the ship was sinking, steam burst out of the boiler and people were screaming or being thrown into the water. A man was impaled by a spear.
The adaption mostly followed the book with few alterations, like an added a love interest and mildly altered ending. The opening scenes occurred on a ship in the water, and what I saw on screen was the image of the scene being tilted gently back and forth in a rocking motion.
How weird was that? View all 7 comments. Aug 28, Sarah Marie rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: people who don't aspire to be serial killers. Shelves: wow-im-reading-a-classic , holding-me-hostage , standalones , read-for-school , short-story , horror , mental-illness , mind-blown-from-the-awesomeness , best-villains , male-pov. Whimsical Writing Scale: 4. View all 11 comments.
The game An adventurous short story, not something we normaly come across. Though a short story, we are gripped from the start to the end. Apr 12, Sara rated it liked it Shelves: short-stories-novellas.
This was not a new story for me. I read it years ago, probably in high school. I cannot recall the reaction I had then, and this is one of those tales that you cannot react the same way once you know the outcome. It does spark some interesting thoughts about putting yourself in someone else's shoes. I liked this line: Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have.
An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. I have heard that voice, and sometimes even though it is muffled, it is there, hoping it will not be ignored. Interesting premise, if it was a full book not a short story. A well-written and well-executed short story with a premise which we're all familiar with, given that it has inspired much of various media that followed. While I guessed the plot quite soon after, it was still a great read with an ending which I did not expect.
Talha Definitely gonna read this now! Caleb M. Apr 29, Ian rated it liked it. I now see why, as this is the tale that kicked off the whole 'hunting humans' genre- from Sheckley's Tenth Victim to more movies and TV shows than I ever could count. It tells the story of an American hunter who falls off his yacht and ends up on a tropical island owned by a sinister Russian general, who's also a fanatical big game hunter.
But the general's killed at least one of just about 3. But the general's killed at least one of just about everything and is bored, except by 'the most dangerous game of all. Certainly some of the language is dated but for the most part the prose is economical and descriptive.
Certainly it may seem cliched but after all, it was the first time out for many of these ideas. The whole story has an authentic 'roaring Twenties' feel to it which makes it more convincing, imho. Great way to spend half an hour. I love short stories because they can be exceptionally difficult to write, but entertaining to read. This book was action packed, and not a single moment was boring.
Connell did a great job at building tension, and I loved the characters. Dark and intense, a great read. View all 5 comments. Nov 22, mwana rated it it was amazing Shelves: short-stories-or-collections , action-suspense-thriller , favorites , classic. Is there a movie for this? Because I would pay to see that. A lot. Well written and executed with a satisfying ending, this classic short seems to be the inspiration for a few later stories and I am happy I read it at last.
The story takes place in a strange island, and a hunter who fell of a yacht into the sea, tries to swim his way to the island. He finds two men and is delighted but soon afterwards things take a drastic turn. It was an interesting read. May 30, Allison Tebo rated it liked it Shelves: action-adventure-contemporary. Classy and chilling at the same time - a fast paced adventure full of atmosphere and set on a claustrophobic setting. Also an interesting commentary on how man without God--living with an evolution based mindset--sinks into the sickening mindset of viewing humans as animals and prey to be hunted down and destroyed.
Because of the intense subject and some violence - this short story is best for older readers. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. You've had no hunting--". He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened. The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape.
But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's? He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest. This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh? Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here.
Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--". Then a businesslike air animated him. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island.
We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear.
You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir. From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.
Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth. He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic.
Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea.
He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox.
Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark.
But perhaps the general was a devil An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction.
Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. That which was approaching was a man. It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him.
He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic--a small automatic pistol. The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils. Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree.
Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter. The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs.
His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry. Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being.
Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back? Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.
He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one.
Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy. The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long.
The cat was coming again to play with the mouse. Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape.
But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.
Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr.
I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back. When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours.
Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely. Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand. His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip.
The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig. Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now.
The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.
He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. The story concludes with Rainsford forced to do battle with Zaroff. Though outnumbered Zaroff has dogs and Ivan to help , Rainsford does not panic and uses the tricks of the hunting trade to outsmart his opponent. Nevertheless, the general discovers Rainsford during the first hunt and, preferring to extend the contest not to capture him, decides rather to enjoy what he believes will be his eventual triumph over a longer period.
During the second encounter, Rainsford becomes more successful as he uses a Malayman-catcher at least to wound Zaroff. Thus the man-versus-man conflict intensifies, and the game becomes more complex. Since retreat is impossible, he is then forced to seek refuge in the dangerous sea by jumping from his precarious location.
While Zaroff believes he has again conquered even though he has not killed his prey personally, his opponent, Rainsford, returns later that night to claim victory, having proved successful not only in subduing his dangerous surrounding but in eluding his hunter and surviving for three days.
0コメント