The Witch Page #12

"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

								

official baritone.

He drew up his horse, saluted with straightened palm, and bent his body
forward with elephantine grace.

‘Come in for a moment. I’ve got a little business with you.’

The sergeant spread his hands wide and shook his head.

‘Can’t possibly. I’m on duty. I’ve got to go to Volocha for an
inquest--man drowned.’

But I knew Evpsychyi’s weak points; so I said with assumed indifference:

‘It’s a pity ... a great pity ... and I’ve got a couple of bottles of
the best from Count Vortzel’s cellar....’

‘Can’t manage it.... Duty.’

‘The butler sold them to me, because he’s an acquaintance of mine. He’d
brought them up in the cellar, like his own children.... You ought to
come in.... I’ll tell them to give the horse a feed.’

‘You’re a nice one, you are,’ the sergeant said in reproof. ‘Don’t you
know that duty comes first of all?... What’s in the bottles, though?
Plum wine?’

‘Plum wine!’ I waved my hand. ‘It’s the real old stuff, that’s what it
is, my dear sir!’

‘I must confess I’ve just had a bite and a drop.’ The sergeant
scratched his cheek regretfully, wrinkling his face incredibly.

I continued with the same calm.

‘I don’t know whether it’s true; but the butler swore it was two
hundred years old. It smells just like an old cognac, and it’s as
yellow as amber.’

‘Ah, what are you doing with me?’ said the sergeant. ‘Who’ll hold my
horse?’

I really had some bottles of the old liqueur, though it was not
quite so old as I made out; but I thought that suggestion might
easily add a hundred years to its age.... At any rate it was the real
home-distilled, omnipotent stuff, the pride of a ruined magnate’s
cellar. (Evpsychyi Afrikanovich, who was the son of a parson,
immediately begged a bottle from me, in case, as he put it, he were to
catch a bad cold.) Besides, I had some very conducive hors d’œuvre:
young radishes, with fresh churned butter.

‘Now, what’s the little business?’ the sergeant asked after his fifth
glass, throwing himself back in the old chair which groaned under him.

I began to explain the position of the poor old woman; I dwelt on her
hopeless despair; spoke lightly of useless formalities. The sergeant
listened to me with his head bent down, methodically clearing the small
roots from the succulent red radishes, and chewing and crunching them
with relish. Now and then he gave me a quick glance with his cloudy,
indifferent, preposterously little blue eyes; but I could read nothing
on his great red face, neither sympathy nor opposition. When I finally
became silent, he only asked.

‘Well, what is it you want from me?’

‘What do you mean?’ I became agitated. ‘Look at their position,
please--two poor defenceless women living there----’

‘And one of them’s a perfect little bud!’ the sergeant put in
maliciously.

‘Bud or no bud--that doesn’t come into it. But why shouldn’t you take
some interest in them? As though you really need to turn them out in
such a hurry? Just wait a day or two until I’ve been to the landlord.
What do you stand to lose, even if you waited for a month?’

‘What do I stand to lose?’ The sergeant rose in his chair. ‘Good God!
I stand to lose everything--my job, first of all. Who knows what sort
of a man this new landlord, Ilyashevich is? Perhaps he’s an underhand
devil, one of the sort who get hold of a bit of paper and a pen on the
slightest provocation, and send a little report to Petersburg? There
are men of the kind!’

I tried to reassure the agitated sergeant.

‘That’s enough, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich! You’re exaggerating the whole
affair. After all, a risk’s a risk, and gratitude’s gratitude.’

‘Ph-e-w!’ The sergeant gave a long-drawn whistle and thrust his hands
into his trouser-pockets. ‘It’s gratitude, is it? Do you think I’m
going to stake my official position for three pounds? No, you’ve got a
wrong idea of me.’

‘But what are you getting warm about, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich? The
amount isn’t the point, just simply--well, let’s say, for humanity’s
sake----’

‘For hu-man-i-ty’s sake?’ He hammered out each syllable. ‘I’m full up
to here with your humanity!’ He tapped vigorously on the bronzed nape
of his mighty neck which hung down over his collar in a fat, hairless
fold.

‘That’s a bit too strong, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich.’

‘Not a bit too strong! “They’re the plague of the place,” as Mr.
Krylov, the famous fable-writer, said. That’s what these two ladies
are. You don’t happen to have read that splendid work, by His
Excellency Count Urussov, called The Police Sergeant?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, you ought to have. A brilliant work, highly moral. I would
advise you to make its acquaintance when you have the time----’

‘Right, I’ll do so with pleasure. But still I don’t see what this
book’s got to do with these two poor women.’

‘What’s it got to do with them? A great deal. Firstly’ (Evpsychyi
Afrikanovich ticked off the fat hairy forefinger of his left hand):
‘“It is the duty of a police sergeant to take the greatest care that
all the people go to the Church of God, without, however, compelling
them by force to remain there....” I ask you, does she go--what’s her
name; Manuilikha, isn’t it?... Does she ever go to church?’

I was silent, surprised by the unexpected turn of his speech. He gave
me a look of triumph, and ticked off his second finger. ‘Secondly:
“False prophecies and prognostications are everywhere forbidden....”
Do you notice that? Then, thirdly: “It is illegal to profess to be a
sorcerer or a magician, or to employ similar deceptions.” What do you
say to that? And suppose all this becomes known, or gets round to the
authorities by some back way, who has to pay for it? I do. Who gets
sacked from the service? I do. Now you see what a business it is.’

He sat down in his chair again. His raised eyes wandered absently over
the walls of the room and his fingers drummed loudly on the table.

‘Well, what if I ask you, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich,’ I began once more
in a gentle voice. ‘Of course I know your duties are complicated and
troublesome, but you’ve got a heart, I know, a heart of gold. What will
it cost you to promise me not to touch these women?’

The sergeant’s eyes suddenly stopped, over my head.

‘That’s a nice little gun you’ve got,’ he said carelessly, still
drumming his fingers. ‘A splendid little gun. Last time I came to see
you and you were out, I admired it all the while. A splendid gun!’

‘Yes, it’s not a bad gun,’ I agreed. ‘It’s an old pattern, made by
Gastin-Rennet; but last year I had it converted into a hammerless. You
just look at the barrels.’

‘Yes, yes ... it was the barrels I admired most.... A magnificent piece
of work. I’d call it a perfect treasure.’

Our eyes met, and I saw the trace of a meaning smile flickering in the
corner of the sergeant’s lips. I rose from my seat, took the gun off
the wall and approached Evpsychyi Afrikanovich with it.

‘The Circassians have an admirable custom,’ I said courteously, ‘of
presenting a guest with anything that he praises. Though we are not
Circassians, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich, I entreat you to accept this from
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