The Witch Page #3

"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

								

she. “Right,” she says, “I’ll teach you not to give me a sixpence.” And
what do you think, sir? That very day the woman’s child began to be
ill. It grew worse and worse and then died. Then it was that the boys
drove her out--curse her for a witch.’

‘Well ... where’s the witch now?’ I was still curious.

‘The witch?’ Yarmola slowly repeated the question, as his habit was.
‘How should I know?’

‘Didn’t she leave any relatives in the village?’

‘No, not one. She didn’t come from our village; she came from the Big
Russians, or the gipsies. I was still a tiny boy when she came to our
village. She had a little girl with her, a daughter or grandchild....
They were both driven out.’

‘Doesn’t any one go to her now--to get their fortunes told or to get
medicine?’

‘The womenfolk do,’ Yarmola said scornfully.

‘Ah, so it’s known where she lives?’

‘I don’t know.... Folks say she lives somewhere near the Devil’s
Corner.... You know the place--the marsh behind the Trine road. She
lives in that same marsh. May her mother burn in hell!’

‘A witch living ten versts from my house ... a real live Polyessie
witch!’ The idea instantly intrigued and excited me.

‘Look here, Yarmola,’ I said to the forester. ‘How could I get to know
the witch?’

‘Foo!’ Yarmola spat in indignation. ‘That’s a nice thing!’

‘Nice or nasty, I’m going to her all the same. As soon as it gets a
little warmer, I’ll go off at once. You’ll come with me, of course?’

Yarmola was so struck by my last words that he jumped right off the
floor.

‘Me?’ he cried indignantly. ‘Not for a million! Come what may, I’m not
going with you.’

‘Nonsense; of course, you’ll come.’

‘No, sir, I will not ... not for anything.... Me?’ he cried again,
seized with a new exasperation, ‘go to a witch’s den? God forbid! And I
advise you not to either, sir.’

‘As you please.... I’ll go all the same.... I’m very curious to see
her.’

‘There’s nothing curious there,’ grunted Yarmola, angrily slamming the
door of the stove.

An hour later, when he had taken the samovar off the table and drunk
his tea in the dark passage and was preparing to go home, I asked him:

‘What’s the witch’s name?’

‘Manuilikha,’ replied Yarmola with sullen rudeness.

Though he had never expressed his feelings, he seemed to have grown
greatly attached to me. His affection came from our mutual passion
for hunting, from my simple behaviour, the help I occasionally gave
his perpetually hungry family, and above all, because I was the only
person in the world who did not scold him for his drunkenness--a thing
intolerable to Yarmola. That was why my determination to make the
acquaintance of the witch put him into such an ugly temper, which he
relieved only by sniffing more vigorously, and finally by going off to
the back-staircase and kicking his dog Riabchik with all his might.
Riabchik jumped aside and began to howl desperately, but immediately
ran after Yarmola, still whining.

III

About three days after the weather grew warmer. Very early one morning
Yarmola came into my room and said carelessly:

‘We shall have to clean the guns, sir.’

‘Why?’ I asked, stretching myself under the blankets.

‘The hares have been busy in the night. There are any amount of tracks.
Shall we go after them?’

I saw that Yarmola was waiting impatiently to go to the forest, but he
hid his hunter’s passion beneath an assumed indifference. In fact, his
single-barrelled gun was in the passage already. From that gun not a
single woodcock had ever escaped, for all that it was adorned with a
few tin patches, and spliced over the places where rust and powder gas
had corroded the iron.

No sooner had we entered the forest than we came on a hare’s track. The
hare broke out into the road, ran about fifty yards along it, and then
made a huge leap into the fir plantation.

‘Now, we’ll get him in a moment,’ Yarmola said. ‘Since he’s shown
himself, he’ll die here. You go, sir....’ He pondered, considering by
certain signs known only to himself where he should post me. ‘You go to
the old inn. And I’ll get round him from Zanilin. As soon as the dog
starts him I’ll give you a shout.’

He disappeared instantly, as it were, plunging into a thick jungle of
brushwood. I listened. Not a sound betrayed his poacher movements; not
a twig snapped under his feet, in their bast shoes. Without hurrying
myself I came to the inn, a ruined and deserted hut, and I stopped on
the edge of a young pine forest beneath a tall fir with a straight
bare trunk. It was quiet as it can be quiet only in a forest on a
windless winter day. The branches were bent with the splendid lumps of
snow which clung to them, and made them look wonderful, festive, and
cold. Now and then a thin little twig broke off from the top, and with
extreme clearness one could hear it as it fell with a tiny cracking
noise, touching other twigs in its fall. The snow glinted rose in the
sun and blue in the shadow. I fell under the quiet spell of the grave
cold silence, and I seemed to feel time passing by me, slowly and
noiselessly.

Suddenly far away in the thicket came the sound of Riabchik’s bark--the
peculiar bark of a dog following a scent, a thin, nervous, trilling
bark that passes almost into a squeak. I heard Yarmola’s voice
immediately, calling angrily after the dog: ‘Get him! Get him!’ the
first word in a long-drawn falsetto, the second in a short bass note.

Judging from the direction of the bark, I thought the dog must be
running on my left, and I ran quickly across the meadow to get level
with the hare. I hadn’t made twenty steps when a huge grey hare jumped
out from behind a stump, laid back his long ears and ran leisurely
across the road with high delicate leaps, and hid himself in a
plantation. After him came Riabchik at full tilt. When he saw me he
wagged his tail faintly, snapped at the snow several times with his
teeth, and chased the hare again.

Suddenly Yarmola plunged out from the thicket as noiselessly as the dog.

‘Why didn’t you get across him, sir?’ he exclaimed, clicking his tongue
reproachfully.

‘But it was a long way ... more than a couple of hundred yards.’ Seeing
my confusion, Yarmola softened.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter.... He won’t get away from us. Go towards the
Irenov road. He’ll come out there presently.’

I went towards the Irenov road, and in a couple of minutes I heard
the dog on a scent again somewhere near me. I was seized with the
excitement of the hunt and began to run, keeping my gun down, through
a thick shrubbery, breaking the branches and giving no heed to the
smart blows they dealt me. I ran for a very long time, and was already
beginning to lose my wind, when the dog suddenly stopped barking. I
slowed my pace. I had the idea that if I went straight on I should be
sure to meet Yarmola on the Irenov road. But I soon realised that I
had lost my way as I ran, turning the bushes and the stumps without a
thought of where I was going. Then I began to shout to Yarmola. He
made no answer.

Meanwhile I was going further. Little by little the forest grew
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