The Most Dangerous Game原文和翻译

The Most Dangerous Game

by Richard Connell

The

general

raised

his

eyebrows;

he

seemed

hurt.

my

dear

fellow,

the

general

protested,

General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

Rainsford shook his head.

The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately.

rests

entirely

with

you.

But

may

I

not

venture

to

suggest

that

you

will

find

my

idea

of

sport

more

interesting 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..

Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is

not without value, eh?

cheerfully

acknowledge

my

defeat

if

I

do

not

find

you

by

midnight

of

the

third

day,

said

General Zaroff.

was thinking.

Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here.

The

general

sipped

his

wine.

Then

in

a

businesslike

air,

he

went

on,

supply

you

with

hunting clothes, food, a knife. 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

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there.

One

foolish

fellow

tried

it.

The

deplorable

part

of

it

was

that

Lazarus

followed

him.

You

can

imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well,

I must

beg

you to excuse me now.

I always' take a nap 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? General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours.

my nerve,

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 a sharp feeling of 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.

following into the trackless

wilderness.

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,

outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the

crotch,

and,

stretching

out

on

one

of

the

broad

limbs,

after

a

fashion,

rested.

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

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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 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.

congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. You are proving interesting,

Mr. Rainsford. 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

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.

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The softness of the earth

gave

him an idea

and 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. Then he covered the mouth of the pit with weeds and branches.

He crouched behind a lightning-charred tree and he heard the padding sound of feet on

the

soft

earth,

and

the

night

breeze

brought

him

the

perfume

of

the

general's

cigarette.

It

seemed

to

Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by

foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a

minute.

Then

he

felt

an

impulse

to

cry

aloud

with

joy,

for

he

heard

the

sharp

crackle

of

the

breaking

branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found

their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a

man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.

one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole

pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening.

At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he

had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the

baying of a pack of hounds.

Rainsford

knew

he

could

do

one

of

two

things.

He

could

stay

where

he

was

and

wait.

That

was

suicide. He could

flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An

idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford

climbed

a

tree.

Down

a

watercourse,

not

a

quarter

of

a

mile

away,

he

could

see

the

bush

moving.

Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another

figure; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that

Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he

had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy

young sapling and to it he

fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with

a bit of wild

grapevine he tied

back

the

sapling.

Then

he

ran

for

his

life.

The

hounds

raised

their

voices

as

they

hit

the

fresh

scent.

Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart

stopped too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in

Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on

his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.

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