The Witch Page #11

"The Witch" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a haunting novella that explores the themes of love, obsession, and the supernatural. Set in a small Russian village, the story follows the enigmatic figure of a beautiful woman rumored to be a witch. As the protagonist becomes entranced by her mysterious allure, he navigates the boundaries between desire and despair, grappling with the darker aspects of human emotion and the consequences of his actions. Kuprin's lyrical prose and psychological depth create a compelling narrative that delves into the complexities of passion and the fear of the unknown.

• Novel

								

order, or his dog was ill, or he was too busy. ‘I have no time, sir....
I have to be ploughing to-day,’ was Yarmola’s usual answer to my
invitation; but I knew quite well that he would do no ploughing at all,
but spend a good hour outside the inn in the doubtful hope of somebody
standing him a drink. This silent, concealed animosity began to weary
me, and I began to think of dispensing with Yarmola’s services, on the
first suitable occasion.... I was restrained only by a sense of pity
for his enormous poverty-stricken family, whom Yarmola’s four weekly
roubles just saved from starvation.

VII

Once when I came to the chicken-legged hut, as my habit was, just
before dark, I was immediately struck by the anxiety of its occupants.
The old woman sat with her feet on the bed, hunched up, and swayed
to and fro with her head in her hands, murmuring something I could
not catch. She paid no attention to my greeting. Olyessia welcomed me
kindly as always, but our conversation made no headway. She listened to
me absently and answered me inconsequently. On her beautiful face lay
the shadow of some unceasing secret trouble.

‘Something bad has happened to you, Olyessia, I can see,’ I said
cautiously, touching her hand which lay on the bench.

Olyessia quickly turned her face to the window, as though she were
examining something. She tried to look calm, but her eyebrows drew
together and trembled, and her teeth violently bit her under lip.

‘No, ... what could have happened to us?’ she said with a dull voice.
‘Everything is just as it was.’

‘Olyessia, why don’t you tell me the truth? It’s wrong of you.... I
thought that we had become real friends.’

‘It’s nothing, really.... Nothing.... Our troubles ... trifles.’

‘No, Olyessia, they don’t seem to be trifles. You’re not like yourself.’

‘That’s only your fancy.’

‘Be frank with me, Olyessia. I don’t know whether I can help, but I can
give you some advice perhaps.... And, anyhow, you’ll feel better when
you’ve shared your trouble.’

‘But it’s really not worth talking about,’ Olyessia replied
impatiently. ‘You can’t possibly help us at all, now.’

Suddenly, with unexpected passion, the old woman broke into the
conversation.

‘Why are you so stubborn, you little fool? Some one talks business to
you, and you hold up your nose. As if nobody in the world was cleverer
than you! If you please, sir, I’ll tell you the whole story,’ she said,
turning towards me, ‘beginning with the beginning.’

The trouble appeared much more considerable than I could have supposed
from Olyessia’s proud words. The evening before, the local policeman
had come to the chicken-legged hut.

‘First he sat down, nice and politely, and asked for vodka,’ Manuilikha
said, ‘and then he began and went on and on. “Clear out of the hut in
twenty-four hours with all your belongings. If I come next time,” he
says, “and find you here, then I tell you, you’ll go to jail. I’ll send
you away with a couple of soldiers to your native place, curse you.”
But you know, sir, my native place is hundreds of miles away, the town
of Amchensk.... I haven’t a soul there now who knows me. Our passports
have been out of date for years, and besides they aren’t in order. Ah,
my God, what misfortune!’

‘Then why did he let you live here before, and only just now made up
his mind?’

‘How can I tell?... He shouted out something or other, but I confess I
couldn’t understand it. You see how it is: this hole we live in isn’t
ours. It belongs to the landlord. Olyessia and I used to live in the
village before, but the----’

‘Yes, yes, I know, granny. I’ve heard about that. The peasants got
angry with you----’

‘That’s it, exactly. So I begged this hut from the old landlord, Mr.
Abrossimov. Now, they say a new landlord has bought the forest, and it
seems he wants to drain some marshes. But what can I do?’

‘Perhaps it’s all a lie, granny,’ I said. ‘And the sergeant only wants
to get a pound out of you.’

‘But I offered it to him, I offered it, sir. He wouldn’t take it. It’s
a strange business.... I offered him three pounds, but he wouldn’t take
it.... It was awful. He swore at me so badly that I didn’t know where I
was. All the while he went on saying: “Be off with you, be off!” What
can we do now? We’re alone in the world. Good sir, you might manage
to help us in some way. You could speak to him; his belly’s never
satisfied. I’m sure I’d be grateful to you eternally.’

‘Granny!’ said Olyessia, in a slow reproachful voice.

‘What do you mean, “Granny!”’ The old woman was annoyed. ‘Twenty-five
years I’ve been a granny to you. And what’s your opinion; it’s better
to carry a beggar’s pack? No, don’t listen to her, sir! Of your
charity, do something for us if you can.’

I gave her vague promises to take some steps, though, to tell the truth
I could see but little hope. If our sergeant wouldn’t take money, then
the affair must be very serious. That evening Olyessia parted from me
coldly, and, quite against her usual habit, did not walk with me. I
could see that the proud girl was angry with me for interfering, and
rather ashamed of her grandmother’s whimpering.

VIII

It was a warm, greyish morning. Several times already there had been
brief showers of heavy fruitful rain, which makes the young grass
grow before your eyes and the new shoots stretch out. After the rain
the sun peeped out for a moment, pouring its joyous glitter over the
tender green of the lilac bushes, sodden with the rain, which made all
my hedge. The sparrows’ impetuous chirrup grew louder among the lush
gardenbeds, and the scent of the sticky brown poplar buds came sweeter.
I was sitting at the table, drawing a plan of timber to be felled, when
Yarmola entered the room.

‘The sergeant’s here,’ he said gloomily.

At the moment I had completely forgotten that I had ordered him a
couple of days ago to let me know in case the sergeant were to pass. It
was impossible for me to understand immediately what was the connection
between me and the delegate of authority.

‘What?’ I said in confusion.

‘I say the sergeant’s here,’ Yarmola repeated in the same hostile tone
that he normally assumed towards me during the last days. ‘I saw him on
the dam just now. He’s coming here.’

There was a rumble of wheels on the road outside. A long thin
chocolate-coloured gelding with a hanging under lip, and an insulted
look on its face, gravely trotted up with a tall, jolting, basket gig.
There was only a single trace. The place of the other was supplied by
a piece of stout rope. (Malicious tongues asserted that the sergeant
had put this miserable contraption together on purpose to avoid any
undesirable comments.) The sergeant himself held the reins, filling
both seats with his enormous body, which was wrapped in a grey uniform
made of smart military cloth.

‘Good-day to you, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich!’ I called, leaning out of the
window.

‘Ah, good-day! How do you do?’ he answered in a loud, courteous,
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