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.
TRANSLATIONS FROM HEINE.
I.—CHILDE HAROLD.
Lo, a large, black-shrouded barge