The Witch Page #6

"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

								

her voice her confidence in her strength. ‘But I don’t like it. Why do
you kill birds, or hares even? They do nobody any harm, and they want
to live as much as you or I. I love them; they are so tiny, and such
little stupids.... Well, good-bye.’ She began to hurry. ‘I don’t know
your name.... I’m afraid granny will be cross with me.’

With easy swiftness she ran to the hut. She bent her head, and with her
hands caught up her hair, blown loose in the wind.

‘Wait, wait a moment,’ I called. ‘What is your name? Let us be properly
introduced.’

‘My name’s Alyona.... Hereabouts they call me Olyessia.’

I shouldered my gun and went the way I had been shown. I climbed a
small mound from whence a narrow, hardly visible, forest path began,
and looked back. Olyessia’s red skirt, fluttering in the wind, could
still be seen on the steps of the hut, a spot of bright colour on the
smooth and blinding background of the snow.

An hour later Yarmola returned. As usual he avoided idle conversation,
and asked me not a word of how and where I lost my way. He just said,
casually:

‘There.... I’ve left a hare in the kitchen.... Shall we roast it, or do
you want to send it to any one?’

‘But you don’t know where I’ve been to-day, Yarmola?’ I said,
anticipating his surprise.

‘How do you mean, I don’t know?’ he muttered gruffly. ‘You went to the
witch’s for sure....’

‘How did you find that out?’

‘How could I help it? I heard no answer from you, so I went back on
your tracks.... Sir!’ he added in reproachful vexation, ‘you shouldn’t
do such things.... It’s a sin!...’

IV

That year spring came early. It was violent and, as always in
Polyessie, unexpected. Brown, shining, turbulent streams began to run
down the village streets, foaming angrily round the stones, whirling
splinters and feathers along with it. In the huge pools of water was
reflected the azure sky, with the round, spinning white clouds that
swam in it. Heavy drops pattered noisily from the eaves. Flights of
sparrows covered the roadside willows, and chattered with such noisy
excitement that nothing could be heard above the clamour. Everywhere
was felt the joyous, quick alarm of life.

The snow disappeared. Dirty yellow patches remained here and there in
the hollows and the shady thickets. From beneath it peeped the warm
wet soil, full of new sap after its winter sleep, full of thirst for a
new maternity. Over the black fields swung a light vapour, filling the
air with the scent of the thawed earth, with the fresh, penetrating,
mighty smell of the spring, which one can distinguish even in the town
from a hundred other smells. Together with this scent I felt that the
sweet and tender sadness of spring poured into my soul, exuberant with
restless expectations and vague presentiments, that romantic sadness
which makes all women beautiful in one’s eyes, and is always tinged
with indefinite regrets for the springs of the past. The nights grew
warmer. In their thick moist darkness pulsed the unseen and urgent
creation of Nature.

In those spring days the image of Olyessia never left me. Alone, I
loved to lie down and close my eyes that I might better concentrate
upon her. Continually in my imagination I summoned her up, now stern,
now cunning, now with a tender smile resplendent in her face, her young
body nurtured on the richness of the old forest to be as harmonious and
mighty as a young fir-tree, her fresh voice with its sudden low velvety
notes.... ‘In all her movements, and her words,’ I thought, ‘there is
a nobility, some native grace of modulation.’ I was drawn to Olyessia
also by the halo of mystery which surrounded her, her superstitious
reputation as a witch, her life in the forest thicket amid the marsh,
and above all her proud confidence in her own powers, that had shown
through the few words she said to me.

Surely there is nothing strange in it that, so soon as the forest paths
were dry, I set out for the hut with the chicken legs. In case it
should be necessary to placate the querulous old woman I bore with me a
half-pound of tea and a few handfuls of sugar.

I found them both at home. The old woman was moving about by the bright
burning stove, and Olyessia was sitting on a very tall bench spinning
flax. I banged the door as I entered, and she turned round. The thread
snapped and the spindle rolled on to the floor.

For some time the old woman stared at me with angry intentness,
frowning, and screening her face from the heat of the stove with her
hand.

‘How do you do, granny?’ I said in a loud, hearty voice. ‘It must be
you don’t recognise me. You remember I came in here last month to ask
my way? You told me my fortune too.’

‘I don’t remember anything, sir,’ the old woman began to mumble,
shaking her head with annoyance. ‘I remember nothing. I can’t make out
at all what you’ve forgotten here. We are no company for you. We’re
simple, plain folk.... There’s nothing for you here. The forest is
wide, there’s room enough to wander....’

Taken aback by the hostile reception, and utterly nonplussed, I found
myself in the foolish situation of not knowing what to do: whether to
turn the rudeness to a joke, or to take offence, or finally to turn and
go back without a word. Involuntarily I turned to Olyessia with a look
of helplessness. She gave me the faintest trace of a smile of derision,
that was not wholly malicious, rose from the spinning-wheel and went to
the old woman.

‘Don’t be afraid, granny,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He’s not a bad man.
He won’t do us any harm. Please sit down,’ she added, pointing me to a
bench in the corner of honour, and paying no more attention to the old
woman’s grumbling.

Encouraged by her attention, I suddenly decided to adopt the most
decisive measures.

‘But you do get angry, granny.... No sooner does a guest appear in your
doorway than you begin to abuse him. And I had brought you a present,’
I said, taking the parcels out of my bag.

The old woman threw a swift glance at the parcels; but instantly turned
her back upon me.

Immediately, I handed her the tea and sugar. This soothed the old woman
somewhat, for though she continued to grumble, it was no longer in the
old implacable tone. Olyessia sat down to her yarn again, and I placed
myself near to her, on a small, low, rickety stool. With her left hand
Olyessia was swiftly twisting a white thread of flax, silky soft, and
in her right the spindle whirled with an easy humming. Now she would
let it fall almost to the floor; then she would catch it neatly, and
with a quick movement of her fingers send it spinning round again.
In her hands this work (which at the first glance appears so simple,
but in truth demands the habit and dexterity of centuries), went like
lightning. I could not help turning my eyes to those hands. They were
coarsened and blackened by the work, but they were small and of shape
so beautiful that many a princess would have envied them.

‘You never told me that granny had told your fortune,’ said Olyessia,
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