utter a word. He seemed to

feel awkward himself. But night soon came on and everything was quiet

in the house.

XXIV

Next morning David got up as though nothing were the matter and not

long after, on the same day, two important events occurred: in the

morning old Latkin died, and towards evening my uncle, Yegor, David’s

father, arrived in Ryazan. Without sending any letter in advance,

without warning anyone, he descended on us like snow on our heads. My

father was completely taken aback and did not know what to offer to

his dear guest and where to make him sit. He rushed about as though

delirious, was flustered as though he were guilty; but my uncle did

not seem to be much touched by his brother’s fussy solicitude; he kept

repeating: «What’s this for?» or «I don’t want anything.» His manner

with my aunt was even colder; she had no great liking for him, indeed.

In her eyes he was an infidel, a heretic, a Voltairian … (he had in

fact learnt French to read Voltaire in the original). I found my Uncle

Yegor just as David had described him. He was a big heavy man with a

broad pock-marked face, grave and serious. He always wore a hat with

feathers in it, cuffs, a frilled shirt front and a snuff-coloured vest

and a sword at his side. David was unspeakably delighted to see him—he

actually looked brighter in the face and better looking, and his

eyes looked different: merrier, keener, more shining; but he did his

utmost to moderate his joy and not to show it in words: he was afraid

of being too soft. The first night after Uncle Yegor’s arrival, father

and son shut themselves up in the room that had been assigned to my

uncle and spent a long time talking together in a low voice; next

morning I saw that my uncle looked particularly affectionately and

trustfully at his son: he seemed very much pleased with him. David

took him to the requiem service for Latkin; I went to it, too, my

father did not hinder my going but remained at home himself. Raissa

impressed me by her calm: she looked pale and much thinner but did not

shed tears and spoke and behaved with perfect simplicity; and with all

that, strange to say, I saw a certain grandeur in her; the unconscious

grandeur of sorrow forgetful of itself! Uncle Yegor made her

acquaintance on the spot, in the church porch; from his manner to her,

it was evident that David had already spoken of her. He was as pleased

with her as with his son: I could read that in David’s eyes when he

looked at them both. I remember how his eyes sparkled when his father

said, speaking of her: «She’s a clever girl; she’ll make a capable

woman.» At the Latkins’ I was told that the old man had quietly

expired like a candle that has burnt out, and that until he had lost

power and consciousness, he kept stroking his daughter’s head and

saying something unintelligible but not gloomy, and he was smiling to

the end. My father went to the funeral and to the service in the

church and prayed very devoutly; Trankvillitatin actually sang in the

choir.

Beside the grave Raissa suddenly broke into sobs and sank forward on

the ground; but she soon recovered herself. Her little deaf and dumb

sister stared at everyone and everything with big, bright, rather

wild-looking eyes; from time to time she huddled up to Raissa, but

there was no sign of terror about her. The day after the funeral Uncle

Yegor, who, judging from appearances, had not come back from Siberia

with empty hands (he paid for the funeral and liberally rewarded

David’s rescuer) but who told us nothing of his doings there or of his

plans for the future, Uncle Yegor suddenly informed my father that he

did not intend to remain in Ryazan, but was going to Moscow with his

son. My father, from a feeling of propriety, expressed regret and even

tried—very faintly it is true—to induce my uncle to alter his

decision, but at the bottom of his heart, I think he was really much

relieved.

The presence of his brother with whom he had very little in common,

who did not even condescend to reproach him, whose feeling for him was

more one of simple disgust than disdain—oppressed him … and parting

with David could not have caused him much regret. I, of course, was

utterly crushed by the separation; I was utterly desolate at first and

lost all support in life and all interest in it.

And so my uncle went away and took with him not only David but, to the

great astonishment and even indignation of our whole street, Raissa

and her little sister, too…. When she heard of this, my aunt

promptly called him a Turk, and called him a Turk to the end of her

days.

And I was left alone, alone … but this story is not about me.

XXV

So this is the end of my tale of the watch. What more have I to tell

you? Five years after David was married to his Black-lip, and in 1812,

as a lieutenant of artillery, he died a glorious death on the

battlefield of Borodino in defence of the Shevardinsky redoubt.

Much water has flowed by since then and I have had many watches; I

have even attained the dignity of a real repeater with a second hand

and the days of the week on it. But in a secret drawer of my writing

table there is preserved an old-fashioned silver watch with a rose on

the face; I bought it from a Jewish pedlar, struck by its likeness to

the watch which was once presented to me by my godfather. From time to

time, when I am alone and expect no one, I take it out of the drawer

and looking at it remember my young days and the companion of those

days that have fled never to return.

Paris.—1875.