THE WATCH: AN OLD MAN'S STORY.

BY IVAN TOURGUENEFF.

I.

I will tell you my story about the watch. A singular story! The whole thing at the very beginning of the century, in the year 1801. I was just sixteen. I lived at Riasan with my father, aunt and cousin, in a little wooden house not far from the banks of the Oka. I don't remember my mother: she died when she had been only three years married, and my father had no child but me. My father's name was Porphyr Petrovitch: he was a quiet man with feeble health, who occupied himself with managing law-business, and—in other ways. In old times they used to call such people sowers of discord: he called himself an attorney. His sister, my aunt, kept the house. She was an old maid of fifty: my father had already left his fortieth year behind him. She was a very pious woman. In fact, to tell the truth, she was a great hypocrite, gossiping and meddlesome, and she did not have a kind heart like my father. We were not poor, but we had no more than we really needed. My father had also a brother, named Gregory, but he had been accused of seditious actions and Jacobinical sentiments (so it ran in the ukase), and he had been sent to Siberia in 1797.

Gregory's son David, my cousin, was left on my father's hands, and he lived with us. He was only a year older than I, but I gave way to him and obeyed him as if he had been a most important personage. He was a bright boy of a good deal of character, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with a square, freckled face, red hair, small gray eyes, thick lips, a short nose and short fingers, and of a strength far beyond his years. My aunt could not endure him, and my father was afraid of him, or perhaps had a consciousness of guilt before him. There had been a rumor that if my father had not told too much and left his brother in the lurch, David's father would not have been sent to Siberia. We were both in the same class in the gymnasium, and we both made good progress—I somewhat better than David. My memory was stronger than his, but boys, as every one knows, do not appreciate that advantage: they are not proud of it; and in spite of it I always looked up to David.

II.

My name, as you know, is Alexis. I was born on the seventh of March, and celebrate my birthday on the seventeenth. They gave me, according to the old custom, the name of one of those saints whose anniversary fell ten days after my birth. My godfather was a certain Anastasius Anistasiovitch Putschkow, or Nastasa Nastasaitch, as he was always called. He was a fearful liar and slanderer and cheat—a thoroughly bad man: he had been turned out of a government office, and had been brought before the court more than once; but my father needed him: they "worked" together. In appearance he was stout and bloated, with a face like a fox, a nose as sharp as a needle, little dark, glistening eyes, like a fox's eyes, and he kept them always moving from side to side; and he moved his nose too, as if he were sniffing something in the air. He wore high-heeled shoes, and he powdered his hair every day, which was considered strange conduct in the provinces in those days. He assured people he could not do otherwise, as he was acquainted with so many generals and generals' wives. And my birthday came, and Nastasa Nastasaitch appeared at our house and said, "I have never yet given you anything, but see what I have brought you to-day." And he took from his pocket an old-fashioned silver watch, with a rose painted on the face, and a bronze chain.

I stood motionless with joy, and my aunt screamed out, "Kiss his hand, kiss his hand, stu—, boy!"

I kissed my godfather's hand, but my aunt added, "Oh, Nastasa, why do you spoil him so? What should he want of a watch? He will be sure to lose it or break it."

My father came in, looked at the watch, and having thanked Nastasa somewhat coolly, called him into his office. I heard my father say, as if he were talking to himself, "If you hope to get off in that way—" But I could not wait a moment longer: I stuck the watch in my pocket and rushed off to show it to David.

III.

David took the watch, opened it and examined it carefully. He had a great talent for mechanics: he could work in iron, copper and all kinds of metals. He had got himself several kinds of tools, and he could easily repair or make anew a screw, a key, and so on. David turned the watch about in his hands, and muttered between his teeth—he was not talkative—"Old—poor," and asked, "Where did you get it?"

I told him my godfather gave it to me.

"Nastasa?"

"Yes, Nastasa Nastasaitch."

David set the watch down on the table and walked off without a word.

"You don't like it?" I asked.

"No: that's not it; but in your place I would not have taken any present from Nastasa."

"Why not?"

"Because he is a contemptible creature, and I would not be under any obligations to him, or have to thank him for anything if I could help it. You kissed his hand, I suppose?"

"Yes: my aunt made me."

David smiled with a singular expression. That was his way. He never laughed aloud: he considered it a sign of weakness. David's words and his quiet smile pained me much. "He is blaming me in his heart," I thought. "In his eyes I am contemptible. He would never have lowered himself in that way: he would never accept a present from Nastasa. But what shall I do now?"

To give back the watch was impossible.

I tried to talk it over with David and get his advice, but he answered that he never gave any one advice, and that I must do what I thought best. I remember I could not sleep all that night, so great was my anxiety. It was hard to part with the watch. I put it on the table at my bedside, and it ticked so pleasantly! But then to feel that David despised me—and there was no doubt that he did—was unendurable. By morning I had come to a determination. It made me cry, but I went to sleep as soon as I had made it, and when I awoke I put on my clothes quickly and ran out in the street. I had determined to give my watch to the first poor person I met.

IV.

I had not gone far from the house when I met what I wanted. A boy about ten years old ran across my path—a ragged, barefooted little fellow, who was often idling in front of our windows. I sprang toward him, and without giving him or myself time for reflection I offered him my watch. The boy stared at me, and raised one hand to his mouth as if he was afraid of burning his fingers, while he held out the other.

"Take it, take it!" I murmured: "it's mine—I give it to you. You can sell it and get something with the money, whatever you want. Good-bye!"

I thrust the watch into his hand, and ran quickly home. I stood for a minute behind the door of our common bedroom, and when I had recovered my breath I went up to David, who had nearly dressed himself and was combing his hair. "Do you know, David," I began with as calm a voice as I could muster, "I have given Nastasa's watch away?"

David looked at me and went on arranging his hair.

"Yes," I added in the same business-like tone, "I have given it away. There's a little boy very poor and miserable, and I've given it to him."

David put the brush down on the washstand.

"For the money he will get for it he can buy himself something useful. He will  certainly get something for it." I was silent.

"Well, that's good," said David at last; and he went into our study, I following him.

"And if they ask you what you have done with it?" he suggested.

"I shall say I have lost it," I answered, as if that did not trouble me a bit. We spoke no more about the watch that day, but it seemed to me that David not only approved of what I had done, but that he really admired it to some extent. I was sure he did.

V.

Two days went by. It happened that no one in the house thought about the watch. My father had some trouble with his clients, and did not concern himself with me or my watch. I, on the contrary, was thinking of it all the time. Even the supposed approval of David comforted me but little. He had not openly expressed it; only he had said once when we were talking together that he would not have expected it of me. Decidedly, my sacrifice was of but little use, since the satisfaction of my vanity did not compensate me for it. As luck would have it, there came a schoolmate of ours, the son of the city physician, who kept bragging of not even a silver, but of a pinchbeck watch his grandmother had given him. At last I could bear it no longer, and one day I slunk quietly out of the house, determined to find the boy to whom I had given my watch. I soon came across him: he was playing jackstones with some other boys in the church-porch. I called him aside, and, hardly waiting to take breath, I stammered out that my parents were very angry with me for giving the watch away, and that if he was willing to give it back to me I would gladly pay him for it. I had brought an Elizabeth ruble with me, which was all my savings.

"But I haven't got your watch," answered the boy with a tearful voice. "My father saw me have it and took it away from me: he did, and he wanted to whip me too. He said I must have stolen it somewhere. He said, 'Who  would be such a fool as to give you a watch?'"

"And who is your father?"

"My father? Trofimytsch."

"But what is he? what's his business?"

"He is a discharged soldier, a sergeant, and he has no business. He mends and soles old shoes. That's all the business he has. He supports himself by that, too."

"Where does he live? Take me to him."

"Yes, I'll show you the way. You'll tell him you gave me the watch, won't you? He keeps calling me names about it, and my mother keeps asking, 'Who do you take after, that you're such a scamp?'"

The boy and I went together to his house. It was merely a rickety hut built in the back yard of a factory that had been burned down and never built up again. We found Trofimytsch and his wife at home. The discharged sergeant was a tall old man, straight and strong, with grayish-yellow whiskers, unshaven chin, a network of wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks. His wife looked older than he: her eyes shone dimly from the midst of a somewhat swollen face, into which they seemed to have been driven. Both wore dirty rags for clothes. I explained to Trofimytsch what I wanted and why I had come. He listened in silence, without even winking or turning his dull, attentive, soldierlike glance away from me.

"How foolish!" he said at last with a rough, toothless bass voice. "Do fine young men behave like that? If Petka did not steal the watch, that is one thing; but if he did, then I'll give it to him with the stick, as they used to do in the regiment. What is that? 'What a pity!' The stick, that's all. Pshaw!" Trofimytsch uttered these incoherent exclamations in falsetto: he had apparently understood nothing.

"If you will give me back the watch," I explained—I did not venture to say "thou" to him, although he was but a common soldier—"I'll willingly give you a ruble for it. I don't think it's worth more."

"Humph!" muttered Trofimytsch, who still did not understand, but continued to gaze at me attentively as if I were his superior officer. "So that's the way the matter stands? Well, then, take it.—Be still, Uliana!" he screamed angrily at his wife, who opened her mouth as if she were about to speak.—"There is the watch," he continued, opening a drawer: "if it's yours, be kind enough to take it, but why should I take the ruble?"

"Take the ruble, Trofimytsch, you fool!" sobbed his wife. "Have you gone crazy, old man? Not a single farthing have we left in our pockets if we were to turn them inside out, and here you are putting on airs! They've cut off your pigtail, but you're an old woman still. How can you act so? Take the money! Would you give the watch away?"

"Be still, you chatterbox!" repeated Trofimytsch. "When did one ever see such a sight? A woman reasoning! ha! Her husband is the head, and she—disputes!—Petka, don't mutter, or I'll kill you.—There's the watch." Trofimytsch held out the watch toward me, but would not let go of it. He considered for a moment: then he lowered his eyes and fixed that dull, straightforward glance upon me, and then suddenly screamed as loud as he could, "Where is it? where is the ruble?"

"Here, here!" I said hastily, and pulled the money out of my pocket. He did not take it, however, but continued to stare at me. I put the ruble on the table. He pushed it with one shove into the table-drawer, threw the watch to me, turned to the right about, and hissed at his wife and boy, "Away with you! get out!"

Uliana tried to stammer out a few words, but I was already outside the door on the street. I dropped the watch into the bottom of my pocket, held it tight with my hand and hastened homeward.

VI.

I was again in possession of my watch, and yet it gave me no pleasure. I could not wear it, and above everything I had to hide from David what I had done. What would he have thought of me and of my lack of character? I could not even put my watch in the drawer, for we kept all our things there in common. I had to hide it—at one time on the top of the wardrobe, at another under the mattress, again behind the stove; and yet I did not succeed in deceiving David.

Once I had taken the watch from under the planks of our floor, and was trying to polish its silver case with an old leather glove. David had gone somewhere down town, and I did not think he was back when suddenly there he stood in the doorway! I was so confused that I almost let the watch drop, and, my face hot with blushes, I felt despairingly for my waistcoat pocket to put my watch into it. David looked at me and smiled in his silent way. "What are you after?" he said at last. "Did you think I didn't know you'd got the watch again? I saw it the first day you brought it back."

"I assure you—" I began with tears.

David shrugged his shoulders: "The watch is yours: you can do what you please with it."

When he had said those hard words he went out. I was overcome with mortification. This time there was no doubt that David despised me. That could not be borne. "I will show him," I said to myself, setting my teeth hard. With a firm step I walked into the next room, where our servant Juschka was, and gave him the watch. At first Juschka would not take it, but I declared to him that if he would not take the watch I would break it into pieces, trample it to powder, crush it to atoms. He thought for a moment, and finally consented to take it. When I came back to our room I found David reading a book. I told him what I had done. He did not lift his eyes from the page he was reading, but shrugged his shoulders again and said, "The watch is yours to do what you like with it." But it seemed to me as if he despised me a little less. I was fully determined not again to lay myself open to the charge of having no  character, for this watch, this hateful present of my hateful godfather, had become so detestable that I could not understand how I could ever have been sorry to lose it, how I could have brought myself to begging it from a man like Trofimytsch, and give him the right to believe that he had behaved generously to me in regard to it.

Some days passed by. I remember that on one of them there came a great piece of news: the emperor Paul was dead, and his son Alexander, of whose generosity and humanity much had been said, had ascended the throne. This news greatly excited David, and awoke in him the hope of again seeing his father, and of seeing him soon. My father too was very glad. "All the exiles will now be allowed to return from Siberia, and they won't forget my brother Jegor," he repeated, rubbing his hands, but with a somewhat anxious expression. David I and I stopped working, and we did not even make a pretence of going to the gymnasium; indeed, we did not even go out to walk, but we used to hang about the house and conjecture and reckon in how many months, how many weeks, how many days "brother Jegor" would return—where we should write to him, how we would receive him, and how we should live then. "Brother Jegor" was an architect, and we both decided that he should move to Moscow and build there great schools for the poor, and we should be his assistants. The watch meanwhile we had entirely forgotten, but it was determined to recall itself to our memory.

VII.

One morning, just after breakfast, I was sitting alone in the window thinking of my uncle's return. The April thaw was dripping and sparkling without, when my aunt, Pulcheria Petrovna, rushed suddenly into the room. She was always very excitable and complaining, and she always spoke with a shrill voice, gesticulating a great deal; but this time she pounced upon me. "Come, come, go to your father this minute, young sir," she sputtered out. "What tricks you've been up to, you shameless boy! But you'll catch it, both of you. Nastasa Nastasaitch has discovered all your goings on. Go! Your father has sent for you: go this moment."

I mechanically followed my aunt, without in the least understanding what it was all about, and as I crossed the thresh-hold I saw my father with his hair on end walking up and down the room with long strides. Juschka was in tears near the door, and my godfather was sitting on a stool in the corner with a very malicious expression in his open nostrils and wandering eyes. My father flew at me as soon as I entered the room: "Did you give Juschka the watch? What?"

I looked at Juschka.

"Tell me," repeated my father, stamping with his feet.

"Yes," I answered, and immediately received a violent box on the ear, which gave my aunt a great deal of satisfaction. I heard her smack her lips with pleasure, as if she had just taken a good swallow of hot tea. My father rushed from me to Juschka. "You rascal! you ought not to have taken the watch," he cried, seizing him by the hair; "and you sold it to the watchmaker, you good-for-nothing fellow!"

Juschka, in fact, as I afterward learned, had in the simplicity of his heart sold my watch to a neighboring watchmaker. The watchmaker had hung it up in his window, where Nastasa had seen it. He bought it and brought it back to us. Juschka and I were not detained long: my father got out of breath and began to cough, and besides it was not his way to be cross.

"Brother," said my aunt, who noticed with regret that he was getting over his wrath, "don't trouble yourself any more about this matter: it's not worth dirtying your hands about. And listen to my proposal: if Nastasa consents, in view of your son's great ingratitude, I will take charge of the watch myself, and since he has shown by his behavior that he is no longer worthy of wearing it, I will give it in your name to a person who will know how to value your kindness as it deserves."

"Who is that?" asked my father.

"Christian Lukitsch," answered my aunt with a little hesitation.

"Christian?" asked my father; and then added with a wave of the hand, "It's all the same to me: you may throw it into the fire, for all I care."

He buttoned his waistcoat, which had come undone, and went out, doubled up with coughing.

"And you, cousin, do you agree?" said my aunt, turning to Nastasa.

"Entirely," he answered. During the whole scene he had not stirred from his stool, but there he sat, breathing audibly, rubbing the tips of his fingers together, and turning his fox eyes by turns on me, my father and Juschka. We gave him a great deal of amusement.

My aunt's proposal stirred me to the depths of my soul. I did not care for the watch, but I had a great dislike for the person to whom she proposed giving it. This Christian Lukitsch, whose family name was Trankwillitatin, a lanky blockhead of a student, had the habit of coming to see us, the deuce knows why. To see about the children's education, my aunt used to say; but he could not do anything of the sort, because he was very ignorant and as stupid as a horse. He was like a horse, too, in other ways: he used to stamp his feet like hoofs, he neighed rather than laughed, and opened his jaws when he did so till you could see down his throat; and he had a long face with a curved nose and large, flat check-bones: he wore a rough coat and smelt of raw meat. My aunt called him a respectable man, a cavalier, and even a grenadier. He had a way of tapping children on the forehead with the hard nails of his long fingers (he used to do it to me when I was younger) and saying, "Hear how empty your head sounds," and then laughing at his own wit. And this idiot was to have my watch? Never! was what I determined as I rushed from the room and flung myself at full length on my bed, my cheeks burning with the box on the ear I had just received. But in my heart was burning the bitterness of outraged dignity and thirst for revenge. Never would I let him triumph over me—wear the watch, hang the chain over his waistcoat, and neigh with joy. That was all very well, but how prevent it? I determined to steal the watch from my aunt.

VIII.

Fortunately, Trankwillitatin was just at this time out of town. He could not come to see us before the next day: advantage must be taken of the intervening night. My aunt did not sleep with her door locked—indeed, throughout the house we had no keys in the doors—but where did she hide the watch? Until evening she carried it about in her pocket, and so ensured its safety, but at night where will she put it? Well, that's just what I must find out, I thought, and clenched my fist. I was glowing with audacity and fear and joy at the idea of the crime I was about to commit. I kept nodding my head, I wrinkled my forehead, I whispered to myself, "Just wait!" I kept threatening every one: I was cross, I was dangerous; and I even avoided David. No one, and particularly not he, should have any suspicion of what I was about to do. I would act alone, and bear the whole responsibility. Slowly the day crept by, then the evening: at last night came. I did nothing: I scarcely moved. One thought filled my head. At supper my father, whose anger never lasted very long, and who was already a little sorry for his violence, tried to bring me back to my good-humor, but I repelled his advances—not, as he thought, because I could not conquer my wrath, but simply because I feared becoming sentimental. I must preserve undiminished the whole glow of my indignation, the whole vigor of an unalterable determination. I went to bed early, but you may well believe I did not close my eyes. I kept them wide open, although I had pulled the bed-clothes over my head. I had not thought over beforehand what I should do: I had no fixed plan. I was only waiting for the house to get quiet. The only precaution I took was to keep on my stockings. My aunt's chamber was in the second story. I should have to go through the  dining-room, the ante-room, up a flight of stairs, along an entry, and on the right was the door. It was not necessary to take a candle or lantern: I knew that in the corner of my aunt's chamber there was a shrine with a light always burning before it, so I should be able to see well enough. I lay with my eyes wide open, my mouth open and dry: the blood throbbing in my temples, my ears, throat, back, throughout my whole body. I waited, but it seemed to me as if a demon were tormenting me. Time went by, but the house did not get quiet.

IX.

Never, it seemed to me, had David been so long in going to sleep: David, the taciturn David, even talked to me. Never did the people in the house clatter and walk about and talk so late. And what are they talking about now? thought I. Haven't they had time enough since morning? Outdoors, too, the noise kept up very late. A dog would bark with long-protracted howls; then a drunken man would go by with a racket; then a rattling wagon would seem as if it took for ever to get past the house. But these outdoor noises did not vex me: on the contrary, I was glad to hear them. They would make the people in the house indifferent to sounds. But at last it seems as if everything were quiet. Only the pendulum of an old clock ticks loudly and solemnly in the dining-room: one can hear the heavy, long-drawn, even breathing of the sleepers. I am just going to get up when something buzzes in my ears: suddenly there is a creaking sound, and something soft falls, and the sound spreads itself in waves along the walls of the room. Or was it nothing, after all, but fancy? At last it has all died away, and the darkness and churchyard stillness of night descend. Now is the time! Cold with anticipation, I throw off the bed-clothes, let my feet glide down to the floor, stand up: one step—a second—I creep along; the soles of my feet don't seem to belong to me; they are heavy and my steps are weak and uncertain. Stop! what is that noise? Is it some one filing, scraping or snoring? I listen with a feeling as if ants were running over my cheeks, my eyes filling with cold tears. It is nothing. I creep along again. It is dark, but I know the way. Suddenly I hit against a chair. What a racket! and how it hurts! I hit just on my knee-pan. I shall die here. Now will they wake up? Well, let them! Boldness and crossness come to my aid. Forward! Now I have passed through the dining-room: I reach the door and shove it open, but the confounded hinge creaks. Never mind! Now I'm going up the stairs—one! two! one! two! One step creaks beneath my tread: I look down angrily, as if I could see it. Now the second door! I seize the handle: it does not rattle. It swings softly open. Thank Heaven! I'm in the entry at last. In the upper entry is a little window beneath the roof. The faint light of the night-sky shines through the dim panes, and by the uncertain light I make out our maid-servant lying on a fur robe on the floor, her tangled head supported by both hands. She sleeps soundly, with light, quick breathing, and just behind her head is the fatal door. I step over the robe, over the girl. Who was it opened the door? I don't know, but I am in my aunt's room. There is the lamp in one corner and the bed in the other, and my aunt in night-gown and cap in bed with her face toward me. She is asleep; she does not stir; even her breathing is inaudible. The flame of the lamp wavers slightly with the fresh draught, and the shadows dance through the whole room and on my aunt's yellow, waxen hair.

And there is the watch! It is hanging behind the bed in an embroidered watch-pocket on the wall. That's lucky! I hesitate, but there is no use in delaying. But what are these—soft, quick footsteps behind me? Oh no, it is only my heart beating. I take a step forward. Heavens! Something round and quite large touches me just below the knee once and then again. I am on the point of crying out: I am near sinking to the ground with terror. A striped cat, our cat, stands before me with her back curved and her  tail in the air. Now she jumps on the bed—heavily but softly—turns round and sits without purring, looking at me with her yellow eyes as grave as a judge. "Puss! puss!" I whisper hardly above my breath, and leaning over her and over my aunt, I take hold of the watch. Suddenly my aunt raises herself, and opens her eyes wide. Heavens! what is going to happen now? But the lids quiver and close, and with a gentle murmur her head sinks back on the cushion. Another moment and I am back in my own room, in bed, with the watch in my hand. I come back lighter than a feather. I am a man; I am a thief; I am a hero. I am breathless with joy; I glow with pride; I am happy, and I will wake up David and tell him all about it; and then, strange to say, I fall asleep and sleep like the dead. At last I open my eyes; it is light in my room; the sun has already risen. Fortunately, no one is yet awake. I spring up as if I were shot: I wake David and confide the whole story to him. He listens and smiles.

"Do you know what we'll do?" he said at last: "we'll bury this stupid watch in the ground, so that there shall be nothing left of it."

I consider this an admirable plan, and in a few minutes we dress ourselves, run into the orchard behind the house, and when we have dug a deep hole in the soft earth with David's knife, we bury beneath an old apple tree my godfather's hated present, which now will never fall into the hands of the disagreeable Trankwillitatin. We throw back the earth, sprinkle rubbish over the spot, and, proud and happy, without being seen, we return to the house, go back to bed, and enjoy for another hour a light, happy sleep.

X.

You can imagine what a row there was the next morning when my aunt woke up and missed the watch. To this day her piercing cry resounds in my ears. "Help! robbers!" she shrieked, and alarmed the whole house. But David and I only smiled quietly to ourselves, and our smiles were sweet. "Every one must be punished," screamed my aunt. "The watch has been taken from beneath my head—from beneath my pillow!" We were prepared for everything, for the worst, but, contrary to our expectations, it all blew over.

At first my father was very angry: he even spoke of the police, but the trial of the day before must have tired him a good deal, and suddenly, to my aunt's indescribable astonishment, he vented his wrath on her instead of us. "You have given me enough trouble already about the watch, Pulcheria Petrovna," he cried: "I don't want to hear anything more about it. It did not take itself off by magic, and what do I care if it did? They stole it from you? That was your lookout. 'What will Nastasa say?' Confound Nastasa! He does nothing but cheat and practice dirty tricks. Don't dare to bother me any more with this: do you hear?"

My father then went to his room, slamming the door behind him. David and I did not at first understand what his last words referred to: we found out later that my father was at that time much vexed with Nastasa, who had snapped up some paying piece of business which had belonged to him. So my aunt had to withdraw with a long face. She was nearly bursting with rage, but there was nothing to do, and she was obliged to content herself with whispering hoarsely, "Rascal! rascal! jailbird! thief!" whenever she passed me. My aunt's reproaches were a great delight to me, and it was also very pleasant whenever we went by the garden fence to throw an apparently indifferent glance at the spot beneath the apple tree where the watch rested, and also, if David was by, to exchange with him a knowing wink.

My aunt first tried to set Trankwillitatin against me, but I made David help me. He spoke up to the tall student, and told him he'd cut him open with a knife if he didn't leave me alone. Trankwillitatin was frightened, for, although my aunt called him a grenadier and a cavalier, he was not remarkable for bravery.

But you don't suppose I have come to the end of my story yet? No, it's not yet finished; only, in order to continue it, I must introduce a new person, and to introduce this new person I must go back a little.

XI.

My father was for a long time on very friendly and even intimate terms with a former official, named Latkin, a poor man, slightly lame, with shy, queer manners—one of those beings of whom people say the hand of God is upon them. He had the same business as my father and Nastasa: he was also a private "agent" and commissioner, but as he had neither an imposing exterior nor a fluent tongue, nor much self-confidence, he could not make up his mind to act independently, and so formed a partnership with my father. His handwriting was wonderful, he had a thorough knowledge of law, and was perfectly at home in all the ins and outs of lawsuits and office-practice. He was connected with my father in several business operations, and they shared their gains and losses, so that it seemed as if nothing could impair their friendship. But one day it was brought to an abrupt conclusion once for all: my father quarreled irreconcilably with his former associate. If Latkin had snapped a profitable bit of my father's business, as Nastasa did afterward, he would have been no more angry with him than he was with Nastasa, perhaps even less. But Latkin, under the influence of some unexplained, incomprehensible feeling of envy or greed, and perhaps also moved by a momentary feeling of honesty, had played him false in exposing him to their patron, a rich young merchant, by opening the careless young man's eyes to some sharp practice by which my father expected to make a very pretty sum. It was not the loss of the money, however much it may have been—no, it was the treachery—which embittered and enraged my father. He could not forgive swindling.

"See there! we have discovered a new saint," said he, trembling with rage and his teeth chattering as if he had a chill. (I happened to be in the room, a witness of this painful scene.) "Very well, from this day forth all is over between us. The heavens are above us, and there is the door. I have nothing more to do with you, nor you with me. You are too honest for me, sir: how could we get along together? But you sha'n't have a bit of ground to stand on, nor a roof over your head."

In vain did Latkin beg for mercy and fling himself on the ground before him: in vain did he try to explain what had filled his own soul with painful astonishment. "Just consider, Porphyr Petrovitch," he stammered forth. "I did it without any hope of gain: I cut my own throat."

My father was immovable, and Latkin never more set foot in the house. It seemed as if fate had determined to fulfill my father's last evil wishes. Soon after the breach between them, which took place about two years before my story began, Latkin's wife died: it is true, however, that she had for a long time been ill. His second daughter, a child of three years, became deaf and dumb one day from fright: a swarm of bees lit on her head. Latkin himself had a stroke of paralysis and fell into the most extreme misery. How he managed to scrape along at all, what he lived on, it was hard to imagine. He dwelt in a tumbledown hovel but a short distance from our house. His eldest daughter, Raissa, lived with him and managed for him as well as she could. This very Raissa is the new person whom I must introduce into my story.

XII.

So long as her father was on friendly terms with mine we used to see her continually: she would sometimes spend whole days at our house, sewing or knitting with her swift, delicate fingers. She was a tall, somewhat slender girl, with thoughtful gray eyes in a pale oval face. She spoke little, but what she said was sensible, and she uttered it in a low, clear voice, without opening her mouth much and without showing her teeth: when she laughed—which was seldom—she  showed them all suddenly, large and white as almonds. I also remember her walk, which was light and elastic, with a little spring in every step: it seemed to me always as if she were going up stairs, even when she was on level ground. She held herself erect, with her hands folded, and whatever she did, whatever she undertook—if she only threaded a needle or smoothed her dress—was well and gracefully done. You will hardly believe it, but there was something touching in her way of doing things. Her baptismal name was Raissa, but we called her "Little Black-Lip," for she had a little mole, like a berry-stain, on her upper lip, but this did not disfigure her; indeed, it had the contrary effect. She was just a year older than David. I had for her a feeling akin to reverence, but she had very little to do with me. Between her and David, on the other hand, there existed a friendship—a childish but warm if somewhat strange friendship. They suited one another well: sometimes for hours they would not exchange a word, but every one felt that they were enjoying themselves merely because they were together. I have really never met another girl like her. There was in her something questioning, yet decided—something honest, and sad, and dear. I never heard her say anything clever, and also nothing commonplace, and I have never seen anything more intelligent than her eyes. When the breach between her family and mine came I began to see her seldom. My father positively forbade my seeing the Latkins, and she never appeared at our house; but I used to meet her in the street, at church, and Little Black-Lip used to inspire me with the same feeling—esteem, and even a sort of admiration, rather than pity. She bore her misfortunes well. "The girl is a stone," the coarse Trankwillitatin once said of her. But in truth one could not help sympathizing with her. Her face wore a troubled, wearied expression, and her eyes grew deeper: a burden beyond her strength was laid on her young shoulders. David used to see her much oftener than I did. My father troubled himself very little about him: he knew that David never listened to him. And Raissa used to appear from time to time at the gate between our garden and the street, and meet David there. She did not chatter with David, but merely told him of some new loss or misfortune that had happened to them, and begged for his advice.

The after-consequences of Latkin's paralysis were very strange: his hands and feet became weak, but still he could use them. Even his brain worked normally, but his tongue was confused and used to utter one word in the place of another: you had to guess at what he really meant to say. "Choo, choo, choo," he would with difficulty stammer forth—he always began with "Choo, choo, choo"—"the scissors, the scissors," but the scissors meant "bread." He hated my father with all the strength that was left him: he ascribed his sufferings to my father's curses, and called him sometimes "the butcher," and sometimes the "jeweler." "Choo, choo, don't you dare to go to the butcher, Wassilievna:" by this name he called his daughter. Every day he grew more exacting: his needs increased; and how should his needs be satisfied? where get the money? Sorrows soon make people old, but it was painful to hear these questions from the lips of a sixteen-year-old girl.

XIII.

I remember I happened to be present at her conversation with David by the hedge on the day her mother died.

"Mother died this morning," first letting her dark, expressive eyes wander around and then fall on the ground. "The cook has undertaken to buy a cheap coffin, but she is not to be trusted: she may spend the money in drink. You must come and look after her, David: she is afraid of you."

"I will come," answered David: "I will see to it. And your father?"

"He cries and says, 'You'll spoil me, too!'—he means bury him. Now he has gone to sleep." Raissa suddenly drew a deep sigh: "Oh, David! David!" She drew her half-closed hand across her  brow and eyes, a gesture graceful and sad, like all her movements.

"But you must take care of yourself," said David. "You can't have slept at all; and why cry? It won't help matters."

"I have no time to cry," answered Raissa.

"The rich can indulge themselves in the luxury of crying," said David.

Raissa started to go, but she turned back: "We are thinking of selling the yellow shawl: you know the one that belonged to mother's trousseau. We have been offered twelve rubles for it. I think that is too little."

"Yes, indeed, much too little."

"We wouldn't sell it," said Raissa after a short pause, "if we didn't need money for the funeral."

"Yes, of course, but you mustn't throw money away. These priests—it's a shame! But wait: I'll be there. Are you going? I'll be there soon. Good-bye, little dove!"

"Good-bye, brother, dear heart!"

"And don't cry."

"Cry? Cook or cry, one of the two."

"What! does she do the cooking?" I asked of David when Raissa had gone. "Does she do the cooking herself?"

"You heard what she said: the cook has gone out to buy the coffin."

She cooks, I thought to myself, and she always has such clean hands and dresses so neatly! I should like to see her in the kitchen. She's a strange girl.

I remember another conversation by the hedge. This time Raissa had her little deaf-and-dumb sister with her. She was a pretty child, with great, startled eyes, and a wilderness of short, dark hair on her little head: Raissa had also dark, lustreless hair. It was soon after Latkin's attack of paralysis.

"I don't know what to do," began Raissa: "the doctor has prescribed something for father, and I must go to the apothecary's'; and our serf" (Latkin had still one serf left) "has brought us some wood from the village, and also a goose. But the landlord has taken it away. 'You are in my debt,' he said."

"Did he take the goose?" asked David.

"No, he did not take the goose. 'It's too old,' he said, 'and it's worth nothing: that's the reason the man brought it to you.'"

"But he had no right to it," cried David.

"He had no right to it, but he took it all the same. I went into the garret—we have an old chest there—and I hunted through it; and see what I found." She took out from under her shawl a great spy-glass, finished in copper and yellow morocco.

David, as an amateur and connoisseur of every kind of instrument, seized it at once. "An English glass," he said, holding it first at one eye and then at the other—"a marine telescope."

"And the glasses are whole," continued Raissa. "I showed it to father, and he said, 'Take it to the jeweler.' What do you think? Will they give me money for it? Of what use is a telescope to us? If we could see in the glass how beautiful we are! but we have no looking-glass, unfortunately."

And when she had said these words she suddenly laughed aloud. Her little sister could not have heard her, but probably she felt the shaking of her body: she had hold of Raissa's hand, and raising her great eyes, she made up a frightened face and began to cry.

"She's always like that," said Raissa: "she doesn't like to have people laugh.—Here, then, darling, I won't," she added, stooping down to the child and running, her fingers through its hair. "Do you see?"

The laughter died away from Raissa's face, and her lips, with the corners prettily turned up, again became immovable: the child was quiet.

Raissa stood up: "Here, David, take care of the telescope: it's too bad about the wood, and the goose, if it is too old."

"We shall certainly get ten rubles for it," said David, turning the telescope over. "I will buy it of you; and here are fifteen kopecks for the apothecary: is it enough?"

"I will borrow them of you," whispered Raissa, taking the fifteen kopecks.

"Yes, indeed; with interest, perhaps?  I have a pledge—a very heavy one. These English are a great people."

"And yet people say we are going to war with them."

"No," answered David: "now we are threatening the French."

"Well, you know best. Don't forget. Good-bye!"

XIV.

One more conversation which I heard at the hedge. Raissa seemed more than usually troubled. "Five kopecks for the very smallest head of cabbage!" she said, supporting her head on her hand. "Oh, how dear! and I have no money from my sewing!"

"Who owes you any?" asked David.

"The shopkeeper's wife, who lives behind the city wall."

"That fat woman who always wears a green sontag?"

"Yes."

"How fat she is!—too fat to breathe. She lights plenty of candles in church, but she won't pay her debts."

"Oh, she'll pay them—but when? And then, David, I have other troubles. My father has begun to narrate his dreams; and you know what trouble he had with his tongue—how he tried to say one word and uttered another. About his food and things around the house we have got used to understanding him, but even ordinary people's dreams can't be understood; and you may judge what his are. He said, 'I am very glad. I was walking to-day with the white birds, and the Lord handed me a bouquet, and in the bouquet was Andruscha with a little knife.'—He always calls my little sister Andruscha.—'Now we shall both get well: we only need a little knife, and just one cut. That's the way.' And he pointed to his own throat. I didn't understand him, but I said, 'All right, father!' but he grew angry and tried to explain what he meant. At last he burst into tears."

"Yes, but you ought to have made up something—told him some trifling lie," I interrupted.

"I can't lie," answered Raissa, raising her hands.

True, thought I to myself, she cannot lie.

"There's no need of lying," said David, "nor is there any need of your killing yourself in this way. Do you suppose any one will thank you for it?"

Raissa looked at him: "What I wanted to ask you, David, was how do you spell should?"

"What?—should?"

"Yes, for instance, 'Should you like to live?'"

"Oh!—-s-h-o-u-d?"

"No," I interrupted again, "that's not right: not o-u-d, but o-u-l-d"

"Well, it's all the same," said David: "spell it with an l. The most important thing is that you should live yourself."

"I wish I knew how to spell and write properly," said Raissa, blushing slightly.

When she blushed she became at once amazingly pretty.

"It may be of use. Father in his time wrote a beautiful hand: he taught me it, too. Now he can hardly scrawl the letters."

"You must live for me," answered David, lowering his voice and gazing at her steadily. Raissa looked up quickly and blushed more deeply. "Live and spell as you please.—The devil! here's that old witch coming." (By the witch David meant my aunt.) "What brings her this way? Run off, my dear."

With one more look at David, Raissa hastened away.

It was only seldom and with great reluctance that David used to talk with me about Raissa and her family, especially since he had begun to expect his father's return. He could think of nothing but him, and how we should then live. He remembered him clearly, and used to describe him to me with great satisfaction: "Tall, strong: with one hand he could lift two hundred pounds. If he called, 'I say, boy!' the whole house could hear him. And such a man as he is—good and brave! I don't believe there's anything he's afraid of. We lived pleasantly until our misfortunes came upon us. They say his hair is become perfectly gray, but it used to be light red like mine. He's a powerful man."

David would never agree that we were going to live in Riasan.

"You'll go away," I used to say, "but I shall stay here."

"Nonsense! we'll take you with us."

"And what'll become of my father?"

"You'll leave him. If you don't, it will be the worse for you."

"How so?"

David merely frowned and made no answer.

"See here: if we go with my father," he resumed, "he will get some good position: I shall marry—"

"Not so soon as that?" I interrupted.

"Why not? I shall marry soon."

"You?"

"Yes, I; and why not?"

"Have you chosen your wife yet?"

"Of course."

"And who is it?"

David smiled: "How stupid you are! Who but Raissa?"

"Raissa?" I repeated in my amazement. "You're joking."

"I never make jokes: I don't know how to."

"But she's a year older than you?"

"What difference does that make? But we won't talk any more about it."

"Just one question," I persisted. "Does she know that you want to marry her?"

"Probably."

"But you haven't told her?"

"What is there to tell her? When the time comes I'll tell her. Now, that's enough." David rose and left the room.

When I was alone I thought it over, and, at last came to the conclusion that David was acting like a wise and practical man, and I felt a glow of pride at being the friend of such a practical man. And Raissa in her eternal black woolen dress suddenly seemed to me charming and deserving of the most devoted affection.

XV.

But still David's father neither came nor wrote. The year advanced; we were well into the summer; it was near the end of June. We grew tired of waiting. Meanwhile, rumors grew thick that Latkin was growing worse, and that his family, as might have been expected, were starving, and that their hovel might at anytime fall to pieces and bury them all in its ruins. David's expression altered, and grew so fierce and gloomy that every one kept away from him. He also began to go out more frequently. I no longer met Raissa. At times I saw her in the distance, hastily walking in the street with light, graceful step, straight as an arrow, her hands folded, with a sad, thoughtful look in her eyes, and an expression on her pale face—that was all. My aunt, with Trankwillitatin for an ally, still kept tormenting me, and perpetually whispered tauntingly in my ear, "Thief! thief!" But I paid no attention to her, and my father was very busy and kept traveling in every direction, without knowing what was going on at home.

Once, as I was going by the well-known apple tree, and more from habit than intentionally happened to glance at the familiar spot, it seemed to me suddenly as if the surface of the earth above our treasure looked different from usual I—as if there were a mound where there had been a hollow, and as if the place had been disturbed. "What's the meaning of this?" thought I to myself. "Has any one discovered our secret and taken the watch?"

I wanted to make sure with my own eyes. I did not care for the watch, which was rusting in the damp earth, but I didn't want any one else to have it. So the next day I got up early, went into the garden equipped with a knife, found the place beneath the apple tree, and began to dig. I dug a hole almost a yard deep, when I was convinced that the watch was gone—that some one had found it, taken it, stolen it.

But who could have taken it except David? Who else knew where it was?

I put back the earth and went into the house. I felt aggrieved. Supposing, I thought, David needs the watch to save his future wife or her father from starvation—for, say what you will, the watch has some value—ought he not to have come to me and said, "Brother" (in David's place I should have certainly said "Brother")—"Brother, I'm in need of money: you have none, I know, but  give me leave to make use of the watch which we both hid beneath the old apple tree. It's of no use to any one. I shall be so grateful to you, brother," how gladly I should have agreed! But to act in this secret, treacherous way, to have no confidence in one's friend—no passion, no necessity could excuse it.

I repeat it, I was aggrieved. I began to show a coolness, to sulk; but David was not one to notice anything of that sort and be disturbed by it. I began to make references to it, but David did not seem to understand them. I said in his presence, "How contemptible in my eyes is the human being who has a friend, and who comprehends all the significance of that sacred feeling, friendship, and yet is not magnanimous enough to hold himself aloof from slyness! As if anything could be hidden!" As I said these last words I smiled contemptuously. But David paid no attention. At last I asked him directly whether our watch had run long after we buried it, or whether it had stopped at once. He answered, "How the deuce should I know? Shall I think the matter over?"

I did not know what to think. David doubtless had something on his mind, but not the theft of the watch. An unexpected incident convinced me of his innocence.

XVI.

I was once coming home through a narrow little street which I generally avoided, because on it was the wing of; a building in which my enemy Trankwillitatin lived, but this time Fate led me that way. As I was passing beneath the open window of a drinking-house I suddenly heard the voice of our servant Wassily, a young, careless fellow, a big good-for-nothing and a rascal, as my father used to call him, but also a great conqueror of female hearts, which he attacked by his wit, his skill in dancing and his music.

"Just hear what they planned between them!" said Wassily, whom I could not see, though I heard him distinctly: he was probably sitting drinking tea with a friend close by the window, and, as people in a closed room often do, spoke loud, without thinking that every passer-by could hear each word. "What did they plan? They buried it in the earth."

"You lie!" said the other voice.

"I tell you, that's the sort of boy they are, especially that David. He's a sharp one. At daybreak I rose and went to the window, and I saw our two little doves go into the garden, carrying the watch, and under the apple tree they dug a hole, and there they laid it like a baby; and then they smoothed the earth, the crazy fellows!"

"The deuce take 'em!" said Wassily's comrade. "Well, what else? You dug up the watch?"

"Of course I dug it up: I have it now. Only, I can't show it to you. There was a dreadful row about it. David had taken it that very night from his aunt's bed. I tell you, he's a great fellow. So I can't show it to you. But stop: the officers will soon be back. I'll sell it to one of them, and lose the money at cards."

I listened no longer: at full speed I rushed home and went straight to David. "Brother," I began—"Brother, forgive me! I have done you a wrong. I have suspected you: I have blamed you. You see how moved I am: forgive me."

"What's the matter with you?" asked David: "explain yourself."

"I suspected that you had dug up our watch from under the apple tree."

"That watch again! Isn't it there?"

"It is not there. I thought you'd taken it to help your friends, and it was that Wassily."

I told David what I had heard beneath the window. But how describe my astonishment? I thought David would be vexed, but I could not have expected what really happened, I had hardly finished my story when he burst into the most ungovernable rage. David, who held this whole miserable affair, as he called it, of the watch in utter contempt—the same David who had assured me more than once that it was not worth an empty egg-shell—he suddenly sprang up, his face aflame, grinding his teeth and clenching his fist. "That can't be allowed," he said at last. "How does he  dare to take another's property? I'll give him a lesson. Only wait: I never forgive a rascal."

To this day I don't see what made David so angry. Was he already full of wrath, and had Wassily's conduct only thrown oil on the flame? Was he vexed at my suspecting him? I cannot say, but I never saw him so aroused. I stood before him open-mouthed, and only wondered why he breathed so hard and heavily.

"What have you decided to do?" I asked finally.

"You'll see after dinner. I'll find that fellow and I'll have a talk with him."

"Well," thought I, "I should not like to be in that fellow's shoes. What in the world is going to happen?"

The following happened. As soon as that sleepy, heavy quiet came which even now falls like a hot feather comforter on a Russian house after dinner, David went, I following him with a beating heart, into the servants' hall and called Wassily out. At first he did not want to come, but finally he concluded to obey and to follow us into the garden. David stood squarely before him: Wassily was a whole head the taller.

"Wassily Tarentiev," began my comrade with a firm voice, "six weeks ago you took from under this apple tree a watch which we had placed there. You had no right to do that: it was not yours. Give it to me at once."

Wassily was somewhat amazed, but he soon collected himself: "What watch? What are you talking about? God knows I haven't any watch."

"I know what I'm saying: don't lie. You have the watch: give it to me."

"No. I haven't got your watch."

"And in the drinking-house you—" I began, but David held me back.

"Wassily Tarentiev," he said in a low, threatening voice, "we know for certain that you have the watch. I am in earnest. Give me the watch, and if you don't give it to me—"

Wassily sniffed insolently: "And what will you do with me, then?"

"What? We will both fight with you until you beat us or we beat you."

Wassily laughed: "Fight? It's not the thing for young gentlemen to fight with a servant."

David quickly took hold of Wassily's waistcoat. "True, we are not going to fight with our fists," he said, grinding his teeth. "Listen! I shall give you a knife and take one myself, and we shall see who—Alexis!" he called to me, "go and bring me my large knife: you know—the one with the bone handle: it is lying on the table. I have the other in my pocket."

Wassily nearly fell to the ground. David still held him by the waistcoat. "Have mercy on me, David," he stammered forth, the tears coming into his eyes. "What does this mean? What are you doing? Oh, let me go!"

"I sha'n't let you go, and you need not expect any mercy. If you're afraid to-day, we'll try again to-morrow.—Alexis, where's the knife?"

"David," roared Wassily, "don't commit a murder. What do you mean? And the watch! Well, I was joking. I—I'll fetch it this minute. What a fellow you are! First you want to cut open Chrisauf Lukitsch; then me. Leave me, David. Be good enough to take the watch; only say nothing about it."

David let go of Wassily's waistcoat. I looked at his face. Really, any one would have been frightened, he looked so fierce and cold and angry. Wassily ran into the house, and at once returned, bringing the watch. Without a word he gave it to David, and only when he had got back again to the house he shouted out from the threshold, "Fie! what a row!" David shook his head and went into our chamber. I still followed him. "Suwarow, just like Suwarow," I thought to myself. At that time, in the year 1801, Suwarow was our first national hero.

XVIII.

David closed the door behind him, laid the watch down on the table, folded his hands, and, strange to say, burst out laughing. I looked at him and laughed too. "It's a most extraordinary thing,"  he began: "we can't get rid of this watch in any way. It's really bewitched. And why did I suddenly get so angry?"

"Yes, why?" I repeated. "If you'd left it with Wassily—-"

"No, no," interrupted David: "that would have been foolish. But what shall we do with it now?"

"Yes, what shall we?"

We both looked at the watch and considered, Adorned with a blue string of pearls (the unhappy Wassily in his terror had not been able to remove this decoration, which belonged to him), it was going quietly. It ticked—to be sure somewhat unevenly—and the minute-hand was slowly advancing.

"Shall we bury it again, or throw it into the river?" I asked at last. "Or shall we not give it to Latkin?"

"No," answered David, "none of those things. But do you know? At the governor's office there is a committee to receive gifts for the benefit of those who were burnt out at Kassimow. They say that the town of Kassimow, with all its churches, has been burned to the ground; and I hear they receive everything—not merely bread and money, but all sorts of things. We'll give the watch, eh?"

"Yes, indeed," I assented. "A capital idea! But I thought since your friend's family was in need—-"

"No, no—to the committee! The Latkins will pull through without that. To the committee!"

"Well, to the committee—yes, to the committee. Only, I suppose we must write a line to the governor."

David looked at me: "You suppose?"

"Yes, of course we must write something. Just a few words."

"For example?"

"Well, for example, we might begin, 'Sympathizing,' or, 'Moved by'—-"

"'Moved by' will do very well."

"And we must add, 'this mite of ours.'"

"'Mite' is good, too. Now take your pen and sit down and write."

"First a rough draft," I suggested.

"Well, first a rough draft; only write. Meanwhile, I'll polish it up a little with chalk."

I took a sheet of paper, cut a pen, but had not yet written at the head of the page, "To his Excellency, to his Highness Prince" (Prince X—— was the governor of our district), when I started, alarmed by a strange uproar which suddenly arose in the house. David also noticed the noise and started, holding the watch in his left hand and the rag covered with chalk in his right. What was that shrill shriek? It was my aunt screaming. And that? That is my father's voice, hoarse with anger. "The watch! the watch!" some one cries, probably Trankwillitatin. The stamping of feet, the creaking of the stairs, the rush of the crowd, are all coming straight toward us. I am nearly dead with fright, and even David is as pale as a sheet, but his eye is as bold as an eagle's. "That wretched Wassily has betrayed us," he hisses between his teeth. The door opens wide, and my father in his dressing-gown, without a cravat, my aunt in a dressing-sack, Trankwillitatin, Wassily, Juschka, another young fellow, Agapit the cook, all hustle into the room.

"You fiends!" cries my father almost breathless, "at last we have found you out!" And, catching a glimpse of the watch in David's hand, he cries out, "Give me the watch—give it to me!"

But David without a word springs to the open window, from that into the yard, and thence into the street. Since I always, in everything I do, follow my model, also jump from the window and run after David.

"Stop them! hold them!" confused voices cry after us.

But we tear along the street, bareheaded, David in front, I a few steps behind, and in the distance we hear the clatter of their feet and their cries.

XIX.

Many years have passed since this happened, and I have often thought it over, and to this day I cannot comprehend the fury which possessed my father, who not long before had forbidden any one's speaking about the watch because it bored him, any more than I can David's wrath when he heard that Wassily had taken it. I can't help thinking it  had some mysterious power. Wassily had not told about us, as David supposed—he did not want to do that, he had been too badly frightened—but one of the servant-girls had seen the watch in his hands and had told my aunt. Then all the fat was in the fire.

So we ran along the street in the carriage-way. The people who met us stood still or got out of our way, without knowing what was going on. I remember an old retired major, who was a great hunter, suddenly appeared at his window, and, his face crimson, leaning halfway out, he cried aloud, "Tally ho!" as if he were at a chase. "Stop them!" they kept crying behind us. David ran, swinging the watch over his head, only seldom jumping: I also jumped at the same places.

"Where?" I cried to David, seeing him turn from the street into a little lane, into which I also turned.

"To the Oka," he answered. "Into the water with it! into the river!" "Stop! stop!" they roared behind us. But we were already running along the lane. A puff of cool air meets us, and there is the river, and the dirty steep bank, and the wooden bridge with a long train of wagons, and the sentinel armed with a pike stands at the toll-gate. In those days the soldiers used to carry pikes. David is already on the bridge: he dashes by the sentinel, who tries to trip him up with his pike, and instead hits a calf coming the other way. David jumps on the rail, utters a great cry, and something white and something blue flash and sparkle through the air: they are the silver watch and Wassily's row of pearls flying into the water. But then something incredible happens. After the watch fly David's feet and his whole body, head downward, hands foremost: his coat, flying in the air, describes a curve through the air—in hot days frightened frogs jump just that way from a height into the water—and disappears over the railing of the bridge, and then, flash! and a great shower of water is dashed up from below. What I did I am sure I do not know. I was only a few steps from David when he sprang from the railing, but I can't remember whether I cried out. I don't think I was even frightened: it was as if I had been struck by lightning. I lost all consciousness: my hands and feet were powerless. People ran and pushed by me: some of them it seemed as if I knew. Suddenly Trofimytsch appeared. The sentinel ran off to one side: the horses walked hastily over the bridge, their heads in the air. Then everything grew green, and some one was beating my neck and down my back. I had fainted. I remember that I rose, and when I noticed that no one was paying any attention to me, I went to the railing, but not on the side from which David had jumped—to go there seemed to me terrible—but to the other side, and looked down into the blue, swollen stream. I remember noticing by the shore, not far from the bridge, a boat was lying, and in the boat were some people, and one of them, all wet and glistening in the sun, leaned over the side of the boat and pulled something out of the water—something not very large—a long, dark thing, which I at first took for a trunk or a basket; but on looking more carefully I made out that this thing was David. Then I began to tremble: I cried out as loud as I could, and ran toward the boat, forcing my way through the crowd. But as I came near I lost my courage and began to look behind me. Among the people standing about I recognized Trankwillitatin, the cook Agapit with a boot in his hand, Juschka, Wassily. The wet man was lifting David out of the boat. Both of David's hands were raised as high as his face, as if he wanted to protect himself from strangers' eyes. He was laid on his back in the mud on the shore. He did not move. Perfectly straight, like a soldier on parade, with his heels together and his chest out. His face had a greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and the water was dripping from his hair. The man who had pulled him out was, judging from his dress, a mill-hand: shivering with cold and perpetually brushing his hair from his brow, he began to tell us how he had succeeded. He spoke slowly and clearly: "You see, gentlemen, how it was. As this young  man falls from the bridge, well, I run down stream, for I know if he has fallen into the current it will carry him under the bridge; and then I see something—what is it?—something like a rough cap is floating down: it's his head. Well, I jump into the water and take hold of him: there's nothing remarkable in that."

I could hear scattered remarks of the crowd. "You must warm yourself: we'll take something hot together," said some one.

Then some one forces his way to the front—it is Wassily. "What are you all doing here?" he cries piteously. "We must bring him to life. He's our young master."

"Bring him to life! bring him to life!" is heard in the ever-growing crowd.

"We must hold him up by the feet."

"Hold him up by the feet! That's the best thing."

"And roll him up and down on a barrel until—-Here, take hold of him."

"Don't touch him," the sentinel interrupts: "he must go to the guard-house."

"Nonsense!" is heard in Trofimytsch's deep bass, no one knows whence.

"But he's alive!" I cried suddenly, almost alarmed.

I had put my face near his. I was thinking, "That's the way drowned people look," and my heart was near breaking, when all at once I saw David's lips quiver and some water flowing from them. Immediately I was shoved away and everybody crowded about him. "Swing him I swing him!" some cry.

"No, no, don't!" cried Wassily: "take him home."

"Take him home," even Trankwillitatin cried.

"He'll be there in a moment: then he'll be better," continued Wassily. (I loved him from that day.) "Friends, is there no mat there? If not, I'll take him by the head and some one else by the heels."

"Hold on! here's a mat: lay him on it. All right: it's as comfortable as a carriage."

And a few minutes later, David, lying on a litter, made his entrance into the house.

XX.

He was undressed and put into bed. Already, while carried through the street, he had given signs of life, sighing and moving his hands: in his chamber he came to full consciousness. But as soon as he was out of danger and was no longer in need of their care, dissatisfaction asserted itself. Every one withdrew from him as from a leper. "May Heaven punish him, the red-headed devil!" roared my aunt through the whole house. "Send him away somewhere, Porphyr Petrovitch, or he'll be the ruin of you yet."

"He is indeed a viper, and the devil is in him," added Trankwillitatin sympathetically.

"And such viciousness!" shouted my aunt, passing close by our door, so that David could not help hearing her. "First he stole the watch, and then into the water with it, so that no one should have it. Yes, yes, redhead!"

"David," asked I as soon as we were alone, "why did you do that?"

"And you too!" he answered, still with a feeble voice. His lips were blue, and he looked all puffed up. "What did I do?"

"Why did you jump into the water?"

"Jump? I couldn't stand on the railing, that's all. If I had known how to swim—if I had jumped on purpose—I shall learn at once. But the watch is gone."

But my father entered the room with a solemn step. "As for you, my young sir," he said to me, "you can expect a sound thrashing, even if you are too big for me to take you across my knee." Then he walked up to the bed on which David lay, "In Siberia," he began in an earnest and serious tone—"in Siberia, in the house of correction, in the mines, live and die people who are less guilty, who are less criminal, than you. Are you a suicide, or only a thief, or a perfect fool? Just tell me that, if you please."

"I am neither a suicide nor a thief," answered David, "but what is true is true: in Siberia there are good people, better than you and I. Who knows that better than you do?"

My father uttered a little cry, took a  step back, looked at David, spat on the floor, crossed himself and went out.

"Didn't you like that?" asked David, sticking out his tongue. Then he tried to rise, but he was still too weak. "I must have hit something," he said, groaning and frowning. "I remember the current carried me against a pier.—Have you seen Raissa?" he asked suddenly.

"No I have not seen her. Stop! I remember now. Wasn't she standing on the shore near the bridge? Yes—a black dress, a yellow handkerchief on her head—that was she."

"Well, you did see her?"

"I don't know. After that—I—you jumped in then."

David became restless: "Alexis, my dear friend, go to her at once: tell her I'm well—that there's nothing the matter. To-morrow I'll go and see hen Go at once, please, to oblige me." He stretched out both arms toward me. His red hair had dried into all sorts of funny ringlets, but his look of entreaty was only the more genuine. I took my hat and left the house, trying to avoid my father's eye lest I should remind him of his promise.

XXI.

And indeed I thought on my way to the Latkins how it was possible that I did not notice Raissa. Where had she disappeared to? She must have seen—Suddenly I remembered that at the very moment David was falling a heartrending shriek had sounded in my ears. Was it not she? But in that case why did I not see her? Before the hovel in which Latkin lived was an empty space covered with nettles and surrounded by a broken, tottering fence. I had hardly got over this fence—for there was no gate or entrance—before my eyes were greeted with this sight: On the lowest step in front of the house sat Raissa, her elbows on her knees and holding her chin in her folded hands: she was looking straight out into vacancy. Near her stood her little dumb sister, playing quietly with a whip, and before the steps, with his back to me, was Latkin in a shabby, torn jacket, his feet in felt slippers, bending over her and brandishing his elbows and stalking about. When he heard my steps he turned round, leant down on the tips of his toes, and then suddenly sprang at me and began to speak with unusual speed in a quivering voice and with an incessant "Choo, choo, choo!" I was amazed. It was long since I had seen him, and I should scarcely have known him if I had met him anywhere else. This wrinkled, red, toothless face, these small, round, dull eyes, this tangled gray hair, these contortions and motions, this senseless, wandering talk,—what does it all mean? What cruel suffering torments this unhappy being? What a dance of death is this!

"Choo, choo, choo," he muttered, bending over continually: "see them, the Wassilievna—she's just come, with a trou—a trough on the roof" (he struck his head with his hand), "and she sits there like a shovel, and cross, cross as Andruscha, the cross Wassilievna" (he meant, probably, "mute"). "Choo; my cross Wassilievna! Now they are both on one last—just see her! I have only these two doctors."

Latkin was evidently aware that he was not saying what he meant, and he made every effort to explain matters to me. Raissa, apparently, did not hear what he was saying, and her little sister went on snapping her whip. My head grew confused. "What does it all mean?" I asked of an old woman who was looking out of the window of the house.

"What does it mean, sir?" answered she in a sing-song voice. "They say some one—Heaven knows who it was—tried to drown himself, and she saw him. That frightened her, but she managed to get home: no one noticed anything strange, and she sat down there on the threshold, and since then she's sat there like an image, whether one speaks to her or not. It's as if she had no tongue."

"Good-bye! good-bye!" repeated Latkin, still with the same gestures.

I walked to Raissa and stood just before her. "Raissa," I cried, "what is the matter?"

She made no answer: it was as if she had not heard me. Her face was no  paler, nor in any way different, except that it had a stony look and an expression of slight fatigue.

"She is cross too," Latkin whispered to me.

I took Raissa by the hand. "David is alive." I cried louder than before—"alive and unhurt. David is alive: do you understand? They have taken him out of the water, he is now at home, and he has sent word that he will come to-morrow to see you. He is alive."

Raissa turned her eyes toward me slowly, as if it hurt her: she winked them two or three times, opened them wider: then she turned her head to one side, flushed suddenly, parted her lips, drew a full breath, frowned as if from pain and with great effort, bringing out the words, "Da—Dav—is—al—alive," and rose hastily from the steps and rushed away.

"Where are you going?" I inquired.

But, laughing gently, she flew over the ground. I of course hastened after her, while behind us was a sound of voices—the aged one that of Latkin, and the childish cry that of the deaf mute. Raissa went straight to our house.

"What a day this has been!" I thought to myself as I tried to keep up with the black dress that flew along in front of me.

Raissa ran past Wassily, my aunt, and even Trankwilhtatin, into the room in which David was lying, and threw herself on his breast. "Oh, oh, David!" came her voice forth from under her loosened hair. And raising his arms he embraced her and let his head rest on her shoulder.

"Forgive me, dear," I heard him say, and both nearly died with joy.

"But why did you go home, Raissa? Why didn't you wait?" I asked. She still did not raise her head. "You might have seen that he was saved."

"Oh, I don't know, I don't know: don't ask me. I don't know: I can't recall how I got home. I only remember I was looking into the air, and a blow hit me; but that was—"

"A blow?" repeated David, and we all three burst out laughing, for we were very happy.

"But what's going on here?" roared a threatening voice behind us, the voice of my father. He was standing in the doorway. "Will these monkey-tricks come to an end or not? Where are we living? In the Russian empire or in the French republic?" He came into the room. "Let any one who is turbulent and vicious begone to France.—And how do you dare to enter here?" he asked of Raissa, who, rising a little and turning her face toward him, was evidently alarmed, although she continued to smile gently. "The daughter of my sworn enemy! How have you dared? And to embrace him too! Away with you at once, or—"

"Uncle," said David, raising himself in bed, "don't insult Raissa: she will go, but don't insult her."

"Will you order me about? I am not insulting her, I'm not insulting her: I merely order her out of the house. I shall yet call you to account. You have made away with another's property: you have laid violent hands upon yourself; you have damaged—"

"What have I damaged?" interrupted David.

"What have you damaged? You have ruined your clothes: do you consider that nothing? I had to give money to the people who brought you here. You frightened the whole family, and you still put on your airs. And this girl, who has lost all sense of shame and honor—"

David tried to spring from the bed: "Don't you insult her, I tell you."

"Silence!"

"Don't you dare—"

"Silence!"

"Don't you dare to insult the woman I am going to marry, my future wife," cried David with all his might.

"Going to marry! your wife!" repeated my father, his eyes rolling. "Your wife! ho! ho! ho!" ("Ha! ha! ha!" echoed my aunt outside the door.) "How old are you? A year less one week has he been in this world—he's hardly weaned yet—and he wants to get married! I shall—"

"Let me go! let me go!" whispered Raissa, turning to the door.

"I shall not ask your permission," shouted David, supporting himself on his hands, "but my own father's, who will be back to-day or to-morrow. He can command me, not you; and as for my age, both Raissa and I can wait. You can say what you please: we shall wait."

"David, think a moment," interrupted my father: "take care what you say. You are beside yourself: you have forgotten all respect."

David grasped his shirt where it lay across his breast. "Whatever you may say," he repeated.

"Stop his mouth, Porphyr Petrovitch—silence him!" hissed my aunt from the door; "and as for this baggage, this—"

But something strange cut my aunt's eloquence short: her voice became suddenly silent, and in its place was heard another, weak and hoarse from age. "Brother!" exclaimed this weak voice—"Christian souls!"

XXIII.

We all turned round. Before us, in the same dress in which I had just seen him, stood Latkin, looking like a ghost, thin, haggard and sad. "God," he said in a somewhat childish way, raising his trembling, bent figure and gazing feebly at my father—"God has punished, and I have come for Wa—for Ra—yes, yes, for Raissa. What—choo—what ails me? Soon I shall be laid—what do you call that thing? a staff—straight—and that other thing?—a prop. That's all I need, and you, brother jeweler, see: I too am a man."

Raissa crossed the room without a word, and while she supported her father she buttoned his jacket.

"Let us go, Wassilievna," he said. "All here are saints: don't go near them; and he who lies there in a case," pointing to David, "is also a saint. But we, brother, you and I, are sinners. Choo, gentlemen: excuse an old, broken-down man. We have stolen together," he cried suddenly—"stolen together, stolen together," he repeated with evident joy: at last he had control of his tongue.

All of us in the room were silent. "But where is your picture of the saints?" he inquired, gazing about: "we must cleanse ourselves."

In one corner he began to pray, crossing himself humbly, so that he touched first one shoulder, then another. "Have mercy, Lord! on my, on my—" My father, who had watched closely without speaking a word, suddenly started, came near him, and began to cross himself. Then he turned and bowed so low that his hand nearly touched the floor, and said, "Do you also forgive me, Martinian Gavrilitsch," and he kissed his shoulder. Latkin answered by kissing in the air and winking his eyes: he evidently hardly knew what he was doing. Then my father turned to all who were in the room—to David, Raissa and me. "Do what you please, do whatever you think you may," he said in a low, sad voice, and he left the room, completely broken down.

"Lord my! Lord my! have mercy on me!" repeated Latkin. "I am a man."

"Good-bye, David," said Raissa, leaving the room with her father.

"I'll be with you to-morrow," shouted David after her; and turning his face to the wall he muttered, "I am very tired: I should like to go to sleep;" and he became quiet.

For a long time I lingered there. I could not forget my father's threat. But my fears proved groundless. He met me, but he uttered no word. He too seemed uncomfortable. Besides, it soon was night and all in the house went to rest.

XXIV.

The next day David got up as if nothing had happened, and not long afterward, on one and the same day, two important events took place: in the morning died the old Latkin, Raissa's father, and in the evening Jegor, David's father, arrived. Since he had not sent any letter or told any one, he took us all by surprise. My father exerted himself actively to give him a warm reception. He flew about as if he were crazy, and was as attentive as if he owed him money. But all his brother's efforts seemed to leave my uncle cold: he kept saying, "Why do you do that?" or, "I don't  need anything." He was even cooler with my aunt; besides, he paid very little attention to her. In her eyes he was an atheist, a heretic, a Voltairian (in fact, he had learned French in order to read Voltaire in the original). I found Uncle Jegor as David had described him. He was a large, heavy man, with a broad, pock-marked face, grave and serious. He always wore a hat with a feather in it, frills and ruffles, and a tobacco-colored jacket, with a steel sword by his side. David took a great deal of pleasure in him: he even grew more cheerful and better-looking, and his eyes changed: they became merry, quick and brilliant. But he always tried to moderate his joy and not to give it expression: he was afraid of appearing weak. The first evening after my uncle's return they two, father and son, shut themselves! up in a separate room and talked together in a low voice for a long time. The next morning I noticed that my uncle looked at David with great confidence and affection: he appeared very well pleased with him. David carried; him to Latkin's funeral services at the church. I also went: my father made no objection, but he remained at home. Raissa's calm surprised me: she had grown pale and thin, but she shed no tears, and her words and actions were very simple. In everything she did I noticed, strangely enough, a certain majesty—the majesty of grief, which forgets itself. At the entrance of the church Uncle Jegor was introduced to her. It was evident from his manner that David had spoken to him of her. She pleased him as much as did his son. I could see that in David's face when I next looked at it. I remember how it glowed when his father said of her in his presence, "She's an intelligent girl: she will be a good housewife." At Latkin's house they told me that the old man had gone quietly, like a burned-out taper, and that so long as he had strength and consciousness he had stroked his daughter's hair, had said something unintelligible, but not sad, and had smiled continually. At the burial my father went to the church and to the graveyard.

Even Trankwillitatin sang in the choir. At the grave' Raissa burst suddenly into sobs and threw herself, face downward, on the ground, but she rose immediately. Her little sister, the deaf mute, looked at everything with great, bright, somewhat dull eyes: from time to time she drew near Raissa, but she did not seem at all afraid. The second day after the funeral, Uncle Jegor, who, apparently, had not come back from Siberia empty-handed (he had paid all the funeral expenses and given David's preserver a generous reward)—who had said nothing of his life there nor of his plans for the future—Uncle Jegor, I say, said to my father that he had determined not to stay in Riasan, but to go with his son to Moscow. My father politely expressed his regret, and even tried, though very gently, to alter my uncle's decision, but in the depths of his soul I fancy he was very glad. The presence of his brother—with whom he had too little in common, who had not honored him with even a single reproach, who did not even despise him, who simply took no pleasure in him—was wearisome to him, and parting from David gave him no especial uneasiness. This separation, of course, nearly broke my heart: at first I was really bereaved, and I felt as if I had lost every comfort and joy in life.

So my uncle went off and took with him not only David, but, to our great surprise, and even to the great dissatisfaction of our street, Raissa and her little sister. When my aunt heard of this she called him a Turk, and a Turk she called him till her death.

And I was left alone, alone, but it makes no difference about me.

XXV.

That is the end of my story about the watch. What shall I add to it? Five years later David married "Little Black-lip," and in the year 1812 he died, a lieutenant in the artillery, the death of a hero at the battle of Borodino, defending the redoubt of Schewardino. Since then a great deal of water has run into the sea, and I have had many watches: I have even been so magnificent as to have  a real Breguet repeater with second-hand and the day of the month. But in the secret drawer of my desk lies an old silver watch with a rose on the case: I bought it of a Jew peddler, struck by its resemblance to the watch my godfather gave me. From time to time, when I am alone and expect no visitor, I take it out of its case, and when I look at it I think of my youth and the companions of those days which are gone never to return.