The Witch Page #19

"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

								

Persian lilac. When he saw me he jumped up from his chair and began to
curtsy, not bowing, but somehow breaking at the waist, and at the same
time unsheathing the pale gums of both his jaws.

‘Extremely delighted to have the honour,’ Nikita Nazarich jabbered
courteously. ‘Very glad indeed to see you. I’ve been waiting for you
here ever since the service. I hadn’t seen you for so long that I was
bored, and missed you very much. Why is it you never look us up? The
girls in Stiepany laugh at you nowadays.’

Suddenly he was seized by an instantaneous recollection, and broke out
into an irresistible giggle.

‘What fun it was to-day!’ he cried out, choking and chuckling. ‘Ha, ha,
ha, ha.... I fairly split my sides with laughing.’

‘What do you mean? What fun?’ I asked without troubling to conceal my
annoyance.

‘There was a row after service,’ Nikita Nazarich continued, punctuating
his words with volleys of laughter. ‘The Perebrod girls.... No, by
God, I really can’t.... The Perebrod girls caught a witch in the
market-place here. Of course, it’s only their peasant ignorance that
makes them think she’s a witch.... But they did give her a thrashing!
They were going to tar her all over, but somehow she slipped from them
and got away----’

A ghastly surmise entered my head. I rushed towards the bailiff, and
forgetting myself completely in my agitation, gripped him violently by
the shoulders.

‘What’s that you say?’ I cried in a furious voice. ‘Stop your giggling,
damn you? Who’s this witch you’re talking about?’

Instantly his laughing ceased, and he stared with his round, frightened
eyes....

‘I ... I ... really don’t know,’ he began to stammer in confusion.
‘I believe it was some one called Samoilikha ... Manuilikha, was
it?... Yes, that’s it, the daughter of some one called Manuilikha....
The peasants were shouting something or other, but honestly I don’t
remember what it was.’

I made him tell me everything he had seen and heard in order. He told
his tale absurdly, incoherently, confusing details, and every moment I
interrupted him with impatient questions and exclamations, almost with
abuse. I could understand very little from his story, and it was only
two months later that I could piece together the real order of the vile
happening from the words of an eyewitness, the wife of the forester of
the Crown Lands, who was also present at Mass that day.

I had not been deceived by my foreboding. Olyessia had broken down her
fears and come to church. Though she did not reach the church until
the service was half done, and stopped in the entry, her arrival was
instantly noticed by every peasant in church. All through the service
the women were whispering to each other and glancing behind them.

However Olyessia had strength enough in herself to stand out the Mass
right to the end. Perhaps she did not understand the real meaning of
those hostile looks; perhaps she despised them out of pride. But when
she came out of the church she could get no farther than the church
fence before she was surrounded by a crowd of women, which grew larger
and larger every minute, and pressed closer and closer upon Olyessia.
At first they only examined the helpless girl in silence and without
ceremony, while she looked everywhere about her in fright. Then there
came a shower of rude insults, hard words, abuse, accompanied by roars
of laughter; then all separate words disappeared into one general
piercing women’s shriek, wherein everything was confused and the nerves
of the agitated crowd became more and more tightly strung. Several
times Olyessia attempted to pass through this horrible living ring,
but every time she was pushed back into the middle again. Suddenly the
squeaking voice of some old hag shrieked from somewhere at the back of
the crowd: ‘Smear the slut with tar--tar the slut!’ (Everybody knows
that in Little Russia to smear with tar even the gates of the house
where a girl lives is considered as a mark of the greatest, the most
indelible, disgrace to her.) Almost the same second a pot of tar and a
brush appeared over the heads of the raging furies, passed from hand
to hand.

Then Olyessia, seized by a paroxysm of anger, horror and despair,
rushed on the nearest of her tormentors with such impetuous force that
she was thrown to the ground. Immediately a fight burst forth, and
innumerable bodies were confused in one general shouting mass. But by
some miracle Olyessia succeeded in slipping out from among the tangle,
and rushed headlong down the road, without her shawl, her clothes torn
to ribbons, through which in many places her naked body could be seen.
Stones, vile abuse, laughter and shouts sped after her.... When she had
run fifty paces Olyessia stopped, turned her pale, scratched, bleeding
face to the crowd, and said so loud that each word could be heard all
through the square: ‘Very well.... You will remember this. You will
weep your fill for this, all of you!’

The eyewitness of the happening told me afterwards that this threat was
pronounced with such passionate hatred, in such a determined tone of
prophecy, that for a moment the whole crowd was as it were benumbed;
but only for a moment, because a fresh explosion of curses was heard
immediately.

I say again that it was not till long after that I came to know many
details of this story. I had neither strength nor patience to hear
Mishtchenko’s tale to the end. I suddenly remember that Yarmola had
probably not had time yet to unsaddle my horse, and without a word to
the astounded bailiff, I rushed out into the yard. Yarmola was still
leading Taranchik along by the fence. I quickly slipped the bridle on,
tightened the girths, and raced away into the forest by circuitous
paths in order to avoid having to pass through the drunken crowd again.

XIII

I cannot possibly describe my state during that wild gallop. There
were moments when I utterly forgot where and why I was riding; only a
dim consciousness remained that something irreparable had happened,
something grotesque and horrible; a consciousness like the heavy,
causeless anxiety which will possess a person in a feverish nightmare.
And all the while strangely rang in my head, in time with the horse’s
hoof-beat, the snuffling, broken voice of the harpist:

   ‘Oh, there came out the Turkish troops
    Like unto a black cloud.’

When I reached the narrow footpath that led straight to Manuilikha’s
hut, I jumped off Taranchik and led him by the rein. By the edge of the
saddle pads, and wherever the girths and bridle touched him, stood out
white lumps of thick froth. From the violent heat of the day and the
speed of my gallop, the blood roared in my head as though forced by
some immense, unceasing pump.

I tied my horse to the wattle hedge and entered the hut. At first I
thought that Olyessia was not there, and my heart and lips were chilled
with fear; but a minute later I saw her lying on the bed with her face
to the wall and her head hidden in the pillows. She did not even turn
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes