Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 17, No. 101, May, 1876

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.