The Witch Page #17

"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

								

What kind of wife could I be for you? You are a gentleman, clever,
educate--and I? I can’t even read. I don’t know how to behave. You will
be ashamed to be my husband....’

‘What nonsense, Olyessia,’ I replied fervently. ‘In six months you
won’t know yourself. You don’t even suspect the natural wit and genius
for observation you have in you. We’ll read all sorts of good books
together; we’ll make friends with decent, clever people; we’ll see the
whole wide world together, Olyessia. We’ll go together arm in arm just
like we are now until old age, to the grave itself; and I shan’t be
ashamed of you, but proud and grateful....’

Olyessia answered my passionate speech with a grateful clasp of the
hand, but she persisted:

‘That’s not everything.... Perhaps you don’t know, yet.... I never told
you.... I haven’t a father.... I’m illegitimate....’

‘Don’t, Olyessia.... That’s the last thing I care about. What have I
got to do with your family, when you yourself are more precious to me
than my father and mother, than the whole world even? No, this is all
trifling--just excuses!...’

Olyessia pressed her shoulder against mine with a gentle submissive
caress.

‘Darling!... You’d better not have begun to talk at all.... You are
young, free.... Would I ever dare to tie you hand and foot for all your
life?... What if you fall in love with another woman afterwards? Then
you will despise me, and curse the day and hour when I agreed to marry
you. Don’t be angry, darling!’ she cried out in entreaty, seeing by my
face that the words had offended me, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.... I’m
only thinking of your happiness. And you’ve forgotten granny. Well, ask
yourself, could I leave her alone?’

‘Why ... she’ll come with us, too.’ (I confess the idea of granny made
me uneasy.) ‘And even if she didn’t want to live with us ... there are
houses in every town ... called alms-houses, where such old women are
given rest, and carefully looked after.’

‘No, what are you saying? She will never go away from the forest. She
is afraid of people.’

‘Well, think of something better yourself, Olyessia. You must choose
between me and granny. But I tell you this one thing--that life will
be hideous to me without you.’

‘You darling!’ Olyessia said with profound tenderness. ‘Just for those
words I am grateful.... You have warmed my heart.... But still I shan’t
marry you.... I rather go with you without being married, if you don’t
send me away.... But don’t be in a hurry, please don’t hurry me. Give
me a day or two. I’ll think it over well.... Besides, I must speak to
granny, as well.’

‘Tell me, Olyessia,’ I asked, for the shadow of a new thought was upon
my mind. ‘Perhaps you are still ... afraid of the church?’

Perhaps I should have begun with this question. Almost every day I
used to quarrel with Olyessia over it, trying to shake her belief in
the imaginary curse that hung over her family for the possession of
magic powers. There is something of the preacher essential in every
Russian intellectual. It is in our blood; it has been instilled by the
whole of Russian literature in the last generations. Who could say
but, if Olyessia had had a profound belief, and strictly observed the
fasts, and never missed a single service, it is quite possible I would
have begun to speak ironically (but only a little, for I was always
a believer myself) of her piety and to develop a critical curiosity
of mind in her. But with a firm, naïve conviction she professed her
communion with the powers of darkness, and her estrangement from God,
of whom she was afraid to speak.

In vain I tried to shake Olyessia’s superstition. All my logical
arguments, all my mockery, sometimes rude and wicked, were broken
against her submissive confidence in her mysterious, fatal vocation.

‘You’re afraid of the church, Olyessia?’ I repeated.

She bent her head in silence.

‘You think God will not accept you?’ I continued with growing passion.
‘That He will not have mercy on you; He who, though He commands
millions of angels, yet came down to earth and suffered a horrible
infamous death for the salvation of all men? He who did not disdain the
repentance of the worst woman, and promised a highway murderer that on
that very day he would sit together with Him in Paradise?’

This interpretation of mine was already familiar to Olyessia; but this
time she did not even listen to me. With a quick movement she took off
her shawl, rolled it up and flung it in my face. A struggle began. I
tried to snatch her nosegay of whitethorn away. She resisted, fell on
the ground and dragged me down with her, laughing joyfully and holding
out to me her darling lips, moist and opened by her quick breathing....

Late at night, when we had said good-bye and were already a good
distance away from each other, I suddenly heard Olyessia’s voice behind
me: ‘Vanichka! Wait a moment.... I want to tell you something.’

I turned and went to meet her. Olyessia quickly ran up to me. Already
the thin notched silver sickle of the young moon stood in the sky, and
by its light I saw that Olyessia’s eyes were full of big brimming tears.

‘What is it, Olyessia?’ I asked anxiously.

She seized my hands and began to kiss them in turn.

‘Darling ... how sweet you are! How good you are!’ she said with a
trembling voice. ‘I was just walking and thinking how much you love
me.... You see I want awfully to do something that you would like very,
very much.’

‘Olyessia ... my precious girl, be calm----’

‘Tell me,’ she continued, ‘would you be very glad if I went to church
some time? Tell me the truth, the real truth.’

I was thinking. A superstitious thought suddenly crossed my mind that
some misfortune would come of it.

‘Why don’t you answer? Tell me quickly; would you be glad, or is it all
the same to you?’

‘How can I say, Olyessia?’ I began doubtfully. ‘Well, yes.... I would
be glad. I’ve said many times that a man may disbelieve, doubt, even
laugh finally. But a woman ... a woman must be religious without any
sophistication. I always feel something touching, feminine, beautiful
in the simple tender confidence with which a woman surrenders herself
to the protection of God.’

I was silent; neither did Olyessia make any answer, but nestled her
head in my bosom.

‘Why did you ask me this?’ I was curious.

She started suddenly.

‘Nothing.... I just asked.... Don’t take any notice. Now, good-bye,
darling. Come to-morrow.’

She disappeared. I stood still for a long while, looking into the
darkness, listening eagerly to the quick steps going away from me. A
sudden dread foreboding seized me. I had an irresistible desire to run
after Olyessia, to take hold of her and ask, implore, demand, if need
be, that she should not go to church. But I checked the sudden impulse,
and I remember that as I went my way I even said aloud:

‘It seems to me, my dear Vanichka, that the superstition’s touched you
as well.’

My God, why did I not listen then to the dim voice of the heart,
which--I now believe it implicitly--never errs in its momentary
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