The Witch Page #5

"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

								

the usual voluble way. ‘A meeting with the queen of diamonds, and some
pleasant conversation in an important house. Very soon you will receive
unexpected news from the king of clubs. Certain troubles are coming,
and then a small legacy. You will be with a number of people; you will
get drunk.... Not very drunk, but I can see a spree is there. Your life
will be a long one. If you don’t die when you are sixty-seven, then....’

Suddenly she stopped, and lifted up her head as though listening.
I listened too. A woman’s voice sounded fresh, clear, and strong,
approaching the hut singing. And I recognised the words of the charming
Little Russian song:

   ‘Ah, is it the blossom or not the bloom
      That bends the little white hazel-tree?
    Ah, is it a dream or not a dream
      That bows my little head....’

‘Well, now, be off, my dear.’ The old woman began to bustle about
anxiously, pushing me away from the table. ‘You must not be knocking
about in other people’s huts. Go your way....’

She even seized me by the sleeve of my jacket and pulled me to the
door. Her face showed an animal anxiety.

The singing came to an end abruptly, quite close to the hut. The
iron latch rattled loudly, and in the open door a tall laughing girl
appeared. With both hands she carefully held up her striped apron, out
of which there peeped three tiny birds’ heads with red necks and black
shiny eyes.

‘Look, granny, the finches hopped after me again,’ she cried, laughing.
‘Look, how funny they are. And, just as if on purpose, I had no bread
with me.’

But seeing me she became silent and blushed crimson. Her thick black
eyebrows frowned, and her eyes turned questioningly to the old woman.

‘The gentleman came in here to ask the way,’ the old woman explained.
‘Now, dear sir,’ she turned to me, with a resolute look, ‘you have
rested long enough. You have drunk some water, had a chat, and it’s
time to go. We are not the folk for you....’

‘Look here, my dear,’ I said to the girl. ‘Please show me the way to
the Irenov road; otherwise I’ll stick in this marsh for ever.’

It must have been that the kindly pleading tone in which I spoke
impressed her. Carefully she put her little finches on the stove, side
by side with the starlings, flung the overcoat which she had already
taken off on to the bench, and silently left the hut.

I followed her.

‘Are all your birds tame?’ I asked, overtaking the girl.

‘All tame,’ she answered abruptly, not even glancing at me. ‘Now
look,’ she said, stopping by the wattle hedge. ‘Do you see the little
footpath there, between the fir-trees? Can you see it?’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘Go straight along it. When you come to the oak stump, turn to your
left. You must go straight on through the forest. Then you will come
out on the Irenov road.’

All the while she directed me, pointing with her right hand,
involuntarily I admired her. There was nothing in her like the local
girls, whose faces have such a scared, monotonous look under the ugly
head-bands which cover their forehead, mouth, and chin. My unknown
was a tall brunette from twenty to twenty-five years old, free and
graceful. Her white shirt covered her strong young bosom loosely and
charmingly. Once seen, the peculiar beauty of her face could not be
forgotten; it was even difficult to get accustomed to it, to describe
it. The charm lay in her large, shining, dark eyes, to which the thin
arched eyebrows gave an indescribable air, shy, queenly, and innocent,
and in the dusky pink of her skin, in the self-willed curl of her lips.
Her under-lip was fuller, and it was pushed forward a little, giving
her a determined and capricious look.

‘Are you really not afraid to live by yourselves in such a lonely
spot?’ I asked, stopping by the hedge.

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

‘Why should we be afraid? The wolves do not come near us.’

‘Wolves are not everything. Your hut might be smothered under the snow.
The hut might catch on fire. Anything might happen. You two are there
alone, no one could come to your assistance.’

‘Thank God for that!’ she waved her hand scornfully. ‘If granny and I
were left alone entirely, it would be much better, but----’

‘What?’

‘You will get old, if you want to know so much,’ she cut me short. ‘And
who are you?’ she asked anxiously.

I realised that probably the old woman and the girl were afraid of
persecution from the authorities, and I hastened to reassure her.

‘Oh, don’t be alarmed. I’m not the village policeman, or the clerk, or
the exciseman.... I’m not an official at all.’

‘Is that really true?’

‘On my word of honour. Believe me, I am the most private person. I’ve
simply come to stay here a few months, and then I’m going away. If you
like, I won’t tell a soul that I’ve been here and seen you. Do you
believe me?’

The girl’s face brightened a little.

‘Well, then, if you’re not lying, you’re telling the truth. But tell
me: had you heard about us, or did you come across us by accident?’

‘I don’t quite know how to explain it myself.... Yes, I had heard, and
I even wanted to call on you some time. But it was an accident that I
came to-day, I lost my way. Now tell me: why are you afraid of people?
What harm do they do you?’

She glanced at me with suspicion. But my conscience was clear, and I
endured her scrutiny without a tremor. Then she began to speak, with
increasing agitation.

‘They do bad things.... Ordinary people don’t matter, but the
officials.... The village policeman comes--he must be bribed. The
inspector--pay again. And before he takes the bribe he insults my
grandmother; says she’s a witch, a hag, a convict.... But what’s the
good of talking?...’

‘But don’t they touch you?’ The imprudent question escaped my lips.

She drew up her head with proud self-confidence, and angry triumph
flashed in her half-closed eyes.

‘They don’t touch me.... Once a surveyor came near to me.... He wanted
a kiss.... I don’t think he will have forgotten yet how I kissed him.’

So much harsh independence sounded in these proud, derisive words, that
I involuntarily thought:

‘You haven’t been bred in the Polyessie forest for nothing. You’re
really a dangerous person to joke with....’

‘Do we touch anybody?’ she continued as her confidence in me grew. ‘We
do not want people. Once a year I go to the little town to buy soap and
salt ... and some tea for granny. She loves tea. Otherwise, I could do
without them for ever.’

‘Well, I see you and your granny are not fond of people.... But may I
come to see you sometimes for a little while?’

She laughed. How strange and unexpected was the change in her pretty
face! There was no trace of her former sternness in it. It had in an
instant become bright, shy, and childish.

‘Whatever will you do with us? Granny and I are dull.... Why, come, if
you like, and if you are really a good man. But ... if you do happen to
come, it would be better if you came without a gun....’

‘You’re afraid?’

‘Why should I be afraid? I’m afraid of nothing.’ Again I could catch in
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