The Witch Page #2

"The Witch" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of superstition, isolation, and the complexity of human relationships. The narrative revolves around an elderly woman, dubbed a witch by the community, who embodies the fears and prejudices of those around her. Through subtle characterization and keen observation of social dynamics, Chekhov delves into the consequences of gossip and the alienation faced by individuals who are misunderstood. The story invites readers to reflect on empathy and the often harsh judgments that society casts upon the marginalized.

								

hound.... Tfoo! To be tempted by the clerk! It was worth upsetting God's
weather for him! A drivelling scribbler, not a foot from the ground,
pimples all over his mug and his neck awry! If he were good-looking,
anyway--but he, tfoo! he is as ugly as Satan!"

The sexton took breath, wiped his lips and listened. The bell was not to
be heard, but the wind banged on the roof, and again there came a tinkle
in the darkness.

"And it's the same thing now!" Savely went on. "It's not for nothing the
postman is lost! Blast my eyes if the postman isn't looking for you! Oh,
the devil is a good hand at his work; he is a fine one to help! He will
turn him round and round and bring him here. I know, I see! You can't
conceal it, you devil's bauble, you heathen wanton! As soon as the storm
began I knew what you were up to."

"Here's a fool!" smiled his wife. "Why, do you suppose, you thick-head,
that I make the storm?"

"H'm!... Grin away! Whether it's your doing or not, I only know that
when your blood's on fire there's sure to be bad weather, and when
there's bad weather there's bound to be some crazy fellow turning up
here. It happens so every time! So it must be you!"

To be more impressive the sexton put his finger to his forehead, closed
his left eye, and said in a singsong voice:

"Oh, the madness! oh, the unclean Judas! If you really are a human being
and not a witch, you ought to think what if he is not the mechanic, or
the clerk, or the huntsman, but the devil in their form! Ah! You'd
better think of that!"

"Why, you are stupid, Savely," said his wife, looking at him
compassionately. "When father was alive and living here, all sorts of
people used to come to him to be cured of the ague: from the village,
and the hamlets, and the Armenian settlement. They came almost every
day, and no one called them devils. But if anyone once a year comes in
bad weather to warm himself, you wonder at it, you silly, and take all
sorts of notions into your head at once."

His wife's logic touched Savely. He stood with his bare feet wide apart,
bent his head, and pondered. He was not firmly convinced yet of the
truth of his suspicions, and his wife's genuine and unconcerned tone
quite disconcerted him. Yet after a moment's thought he wagged his head
and said:

"It's not as though they were old men or bandy-legged cripples; it's
always young men who want to come for the night.... Why is that? And if
they only wanted to warm themselves----But they are up to mischief. No,
woman; there's no creature in this world as cunning as your female sort!
Of real brains you've not an ounce, less than a starling, but for
devilish slyness--oo-oo-oo! The Queen of Heaven protect us! There is the
postman's bell! When the storm was only beginning I knew all that was in
your mind. That's your witchery, you spider!"

"Why do you keep on at me, you heathen?" His wife lost her patience at
last. "Why do you keep sticking to it like pitch?"

"I stick to it because if anything--God forbid--happens to-night... do you
hear?... if anything happens to-night, I'll go straight off to-morrow
morning to Father Nikodim and tell him all about it. 'Father Nikodim,' I
shall say, 'graciously excuse me, but she is a witch.' 'Why so?' 'H'm!
do you want to know why?' 'Certainly....' And I shall tell him. And woe
to you, woman! Not only at the dread Seat of Judgment, but in your
earthly life you'll be punished, too! It's not for nothing there are
prayers in the breviary against your kind!"

Suddenly there was a knock at the window, so loud and unusual that
Savely turned pale and almost dropped backwards with fright. His wife
jumped up, and she, too, turned pale.

"For God's sake, let us come in and get warm!" they heard in a trembling
deep bass. "Who lives here? For mercy's sake! We've lost our way."

"Who are you?" asked Raissa, afraid to look at the window.

"The post," answered a second voice.

"You've succeeded with your devil's tricks," said Savely with a wave of
his hand. "No mistake; I am right! Well, you'd better look out!"

The sexton jumped on to the bed in two skips, stretched himself on the
feather mattress, and sniffing angrily, turned with his face to the
wall. Soon he felt a draught of cold air on his back. The door creaked
and the tall figure of a man, plastered over with snow from head to
foot, appeared in the doorway. Behind him could be seen a second figure
as white.

"Am I to bring in the bags?" asked the second in a hoarse bass voice.

"You can't leave them there." Saying this, the first figure began
untying his hood, but gave it up, and pulling it off impatiently with
his cap, angrily flung it near the stove. Then taking off his greatcoat,
he threw that down beside it, and, without saying good-evening, began
pacing up and down the hut.

He was a fair-haired, young postman wearing a shabby uniform and black
rusty-looking high boots. After warming himself by walking to and fro,
he sat down at the table, stretched out his muddy feet towards the sacks
and leaned his chin on his fist. His pale face, reddened in places by
the cold, still bore vivid traces of the pain and terror he had just
been through. Though distorted by anger and bearing traces of recent
suffering, physical and moral, it was handsome in spite of the melting
snow on the eyebrows, moustaches, and short beard.

"It's a dog's life!" muttered the postman, looking round the walls and
seeming hardly able to believe that he was in the warmth. "We were
nearly lost! If it had not been for your light, I don't know what would
have happened. Goodness only knows when it will all be over! There's no
end to this dog's life! Where have we come?" he asked, dropping his
voice and raising his eyes to the sexton's wife.

"To the Gulyaevsky Hill on General Kalinovsky's estate," she answered,
startled and blushing.

"Do you hear, Stepan?" The postman turned to the driver, who was wedged
in the doorway with a huge mail-bag on his shoulders. "We've got to
Gulyaevsky Hill."

"Yes... we're a long way out." Jerking out these words like a hoarse
sigh, the driver went out and soon after returned with another bag, then
went out once more and this time brought the postman's sword on a big
belt, of the pattern of that long flat blade with which Judith is
portrayed by the bedside of Holofernes in cheap woodcuts. Laying the
bags along the wall, he went out into the outer room, sat down there and
lighted his pipe.

"Perhaps you'd like some tea after your journey?" Raissa inquired.

"How can we sit drinking tea?" said the postman, frowning. "We must make
haste and get warm, and then set off, or we shall be late for the mail
train. We'll stay ten minutes and then get on our way. Only be so good
as to show us the way."
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