The Witch Page #13

"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

								

me as a memento.’

For appearance’ sake the sergeant blushed.

‘My goodness, what a beauty! No, no.... That custom is far too
generous.’

However, I did not have to entreat him long. The sergeant accepted the
gun, carefully put it between his knees and with a clean handkerchief
lovingly wiped away the dust that had settled on the lock; and I was
rather mollified when I saw that the gun had at least passed into the
hands of an expert and an amateur. Almost immediately Evpsychyi
Afrikanovich got up and began to hurry away.

‘Business won’t wait, and here I’ve been gossiping with you,’ he said,
noisily banging on the floor with his reluctant goloshes. ‘When you
happen to come our way, you’ll be most welcome.’

‘Well, what about Manuilikha, my dear Authority?’ I reminded him
delicately.

‘We’ll see, we’ll see, ...’ Evpsychyi Afrikanovich vaguely muttered.
‘There was something else I wanted to ask you.... Your radishes are
magnificent....’

‘I grew them myself.’

‘Mag-nificent radishes! You know, my wife is terribly partial to
garden-stuff. So, you know, one little bundle....’

‘With the greatest pleasure, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich. I consider it an
obligation.... This very day I’ll send a basket by messenger. Let me
send some butter as well.... My butter’s quite a special thing.’

‘Well, butter too, ...’ the sergeant graciously permitted. ‘And you can
tip those women the wink that I shan’t touch them for the time being.
But you’d better let them know’--he raised his voice suddenly--‘that
they can’t settle me with a “Thank you.” ... Now, I wish you
good-bye. Once more, merci for the present and the entertainment.’

He clicked his heels together like a soldier, and walked to his
carriage with the ponderous gait of a full-fed, important person. By
his carriage were already gathered the village policeman, the mayor and
Yarmola, in respectful attitudes, with their heads bare.

IX

Evpsychyi Afrikanovich kept his word and left the people of the forest
hut in peace indefinitely. But my relations with Olyessia suffered an
acute and curious change. Not a trace of her old naïve and confident
kindness remained in her attitude to me, nor any of the old animation
wherein the coquetry of a beautiful girl so beautifully blended with
the playful wantonness of a child. An awkward constraint beyond which
we could not pass began to appear in our conversation.... With an
instant timidity Olyessia avoided the lively themes which used to give
such boundless scope to our curiosity.

In my presence she gave herself up to her work in a strained, stern,
business-like way; but I often noticed that in the middle of her work
her hands would suddenly drop weakly on her knees, and her eyes be
fixed, vague and immovable, downwards upon the floor. And when at such
a moment I called her by name, ‘Olyessia,’ or put some question to her,
she shivered and turned her face slowly towards me: in it was reflected
fright and the effort to understand the meaning of my words. Sometimes
it seemed to me that she was burdened and embarrassed by my company,
but I could not reconcile that with the deep interest that every
remark and phrase of mine used to arouse in her only a few days ago. I
could only think that Olyessia was unwilling to forgive my patronage in
the affair with the sergeant, which so revolted her independent nature.
But this solution did not satisfy me either, and I still asked myself
from whence did this simple girl, who had grown up in the midst of the
forest, derive her inordinately sensitive pride?

All this demanded explanations; but Olyessia avoided every favourable
occasion for frank conversation. Our evening walks came to an end. In
vain I cast eloquent imploring glances at Olyessia each day, when I
was on the point of leaving; she made as though she did not understand
their meaning, and in spite of the old woman’s deafness, her presence
disturbed me.

At times I revolted against my own weakness and the habit which
now drew me every day to Olyessia. I myself did not suspect with
what subtle, strong, invisible threads my heart was bound to this
fascinating, incomprehensible girl. As yet I had no thought of love;
but I was already living through a disturbing period of unconscious
anticipation, full of vague and oppressive sadnesses. Wherever I was,
with whatever I tried to amuse myself, my every thought was occupied
with the image of Olyessia, my whole being craved for her, and each
separate memory of her most insignificant words, her gestures and her
smiles, contracted my heart with a sweet and gentle pain. But evening
came and I sat long beside her on a low rickety little bench, to my
grief finding myself every time more timid, more awkward and foolish.

Once I passed a whole day thus at Olyessia’s side. I had begun to feel
unwell from the morning onward, though I could not clearly define
wherein my sickness consisted. It grew worse towards evening. My head
grew heavy; I felt a dull incessant pain in the crown of my head,
exactly as though some one were pressing down upon it with a soft,
strong hand. My mouth was parched, and an idle, languid weakness poured
over my whole body. My eyes pained me just as though I had been staring
fixedly, close to a glimmering point.

As I was returning late in the evening, midway I was suddenly seized
and shaken by a tempestuous chill. I could hardly see the way as I went
on; I was almost unconscious of where I was going; I reeled like a
drunken man, and my jaws beat out a quick loud tattoo, each against the
other.

Till this day I do not know who brought me into the house. For exactly
six days I was stricken by a terrible racking Polyessian fever. During
the day the sickness seemed to abate, and consciousness returned to
me. Then, utterly exhausted by the disease, I could hardly walk across
the room, such was the pain and weakness of my knees; at each stronger
movement the blood rushed in a hot wave to my head, and covered
everything before my eyes with darkness.

In the evening, and usually at about seven o’clock, the approach of the
disease overwhelmed me like a storm, and on my bed I passed a terrible,
century-long night, now shaking with cold beneath the blankets, now
blazing with intolerable heat. Hardly had I been touched by a drowsy
slumber, when strange, grotesque, painfully motley dreams began to play
with my inflamed brain. Every dream was filled with tiny microscopic
details, which piled up and clutched each at the other in ugly chaos.
Now I seemed to be unpacking some boxes, coloured with stripes and of
fantastic form, taking small ones out of the big, and from the small
still smaller. I could not by any means interrupt the unending labour,
although it had long been disgusting to me. Then there flashed before
my eyes with stupefying speed long bright stripes from the wallpaper,
and with amazing distinctness I saw on them, instead of patterns, whole
garlands of human faces--beautiful, kind, and smiling, then horribly
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