The Witch Page #8

"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

								

he laughed. The moment I glanced at him, I could not move. I saw Yashka
sitting there, but his face was dead, green.... His eyes were shut, his
lips black.... A week afterwards we heard that the peasants had caught
Yashka just as he was trying to take some horses off.... They beat him
all night long.... They are bad people here, merciless.... They drove
nails into his heels, smashed his ribs with stakes, and he gave up the
ghost about dawn.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him that misfortune was waiting for him?’

‘Why should I tell?’ Olyessia replied. ‘Can a man escape what Fate has
doomed? It is useless for a man to be anxious the last days of his
life.... And I loathe myself for seeing these things. I am disgusted
with my own self.... But what can I do? It is mine by Fate. When granny
was younger she could see Death, too; so could my mother and granny’s
mother--we are not responsible. It is in our blood....’

She left off her spinning, bent her head and quietly placed her hands
upon her knees. In her arrested, immobile eyes and her wide pupils was
reflected some dark terror, an involuntary submission to mysterious
powers and supernatural knowledge which cast a shadow upon her soul.

V

Then the old woman spread a clean cloth with embroidered ends on the
table, and placed a steaming pot upon it.

‘Come to supper, Olyessia,’ she called to her granddaughter, and after
a moment’s hesitation added, turning to me: ‘Perhaps you will eat
with us too, sir? Our food is very plain; we have no soup, only plain
groats....’

I cannot say there was any particular insistence in her invitation, and
I was already minded to refuse had not Olyessia in her turn invited
me with such simplicity and a smile so kind, that in spite of myself
I agreed. She herself poured me out a plateful of groats, a porridge
of buckwheat and fat, onion, potato and chicken, an amazingly tasty
and nourishing dish. Neither grandmother nor granddaughter crossed
themselves as they sat down to table. During supper I continually
watched both women, because up till now I have retained a deep
conviction that a person is nowhere revealed so clearly as when he
eats. The old woman swallowed the porridge with hasty greed, chewing
aloud and pushing large pieces of bread into her mouth, so that big
lumps rose and moved beneath her flabby cheeks. In Olyessia’s manner of
eating even there was a native grace.

An hour later, after supper, I took my leave of my hostesses of the
chicken-legged hut.

‘I will walk with you a little way, if you like,’ Olyessia offered.

‘What’s this walking out you’re after?’ the old woman mumbled angrily.
‘You can’t stay in your place, you gad-fly....’

But Olyessia had already put a red cashmere shawl on. Suddenly she ran
up to her grandmother, embraced her and gave her a loud kiss.

‘Dear little precious granny.... It’s only a moment. I’ll be back in a
second.’

‘Very well, then, madcap.’ The old woman feebly wrenched herself away.
‘Don’t misunderstand her, sir; she’s very stupid.’

Passing a narrow path we came out into the forest road, black with
mud, all churned with hoof marks and rutted with wheel tracks, full
of water, in which the fire of the evening star was reflected. We
walked at the side of the road, covered everywhere with the brown
leaves of last year, not yet dry after the snow. Here and there through
the dead yellow big wakening blue-bells--the earliest flowers in
Polyessie--lifted their lilac heads.

‘Listen, Olyessia,’ I began; ‘I very much want to ask you something,
but I am afraid you will be cross.... Tell me, is it true what they say
about your grandmother?... How shall I express it?’

‘She’s a witch?’ Olyessia quietly helped me out.

‘No.... Not a witch,’ I caught her up. ‘Well, yes, a witch if you
like.... Certainly, people say such things. Why shouldn’t one know
certain herbs, remedies, and charms?... But if you find it unpleasant,
you need not answer.’

‘But why not?’ she answered simply. ‘Where’s the unpleasantness? Yes,
it’s true, she’s a witch. But now she’s grown old and can no longer do
what she did before.’

‘And what did she do before?’ I was curious.

‘All kinds of things. She could cure illness, heal toothache, put a
spell on a mine, pray over any one who was bitten by a mad dog or a
snake, she could find out treasure trove.... It is impossible to tell
one everything.’

‘You know, Olyessia, you must forgive me, but I don’t believe it all.
Be frank with me. I shan’t tell anybody; but surely this is all a
pretence in order to mystify people?’

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

‘Think what you like. Of course, it’s easy to mystify a woman from the
village, but I wouldn’t deceive you.’

‘You really believe in witchcraft, then?’

‘How could I disbelieve? Charms are in our destiny. I can do a great
deal myself.’

‘Olyessia, darling, ... if you only knew how interested I was.... Won’t
you really show me anything?’

‘I’ll show you, if you like.’ Olyessia readily consented. ‘Would you
like me to do it now?’

‘Yes, at once, if possible.’

‘You won’t be afraid?’

‘What next? I might be afraid at night perhaps, but it is still
daylight.’

‘Very well. Give me your hand.’

I obeyed. Olyessia quickly turned up the sleeve of my overcoat and
unfastened the button of my cuff. Then she took a small Finnish knife
about three inches long out of her pocket, and removed it from its
leather case.

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, for a mean fear had awakened in me.

‘You will see immediately.... But you said you wouldn’t be afraid.’

Suddenly her hand made a slight movement, hardly perceptible. I felt
the prick of the sharp blade in the soft part of my arm a little higher
than the pulse. Instantly blood showed along the whole width of the
cut, flowed over my hand, and began to drop quickly on to the earth. I
could hardly restrain a cry, and I believe I grew pale.

‘Don’t be afraid. You won’t die,’ Olyessia smiled.

She seized my arm above the cut, bent her face down upon it, and
began to whisper something quickly, covering my skin with her steady
breathing. When she stood up again unclasping her fingers, on the
wounded place only a red graze remained.

‘Well, have you had enough?’ she asked with a sly smile, putting her
little knife away. ‘Would you like some more?’

‘Certainly, I would. Only if possible not quite so terrible and without
bloodshed, please.’

‘What shall I show you?’ she mused. ‘Well, this will do. Walk along the
road in front of me. But don’t look back.’

‘This won’t be terrible?’ I asked, trying to conceal my timid
apprehensions of an unpleasant surprise with a careless smile.

‘No, no.... Quite trifling.... Go on.’

I went ahead, very much intrigued by the experiment, feeling Olyessia’s
steady glance behind my back. But after about a dozen steps I suddenly
stumbled on a perfectly even piece of ground and fell flat.

‘Go on, go on!’ cried Olyessia. ‘Don’t look back! It’s nothing at all.
It will be all right before your wedding day.... Keep a better grip on
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